


The Fates Both Cruel and Changeable

by Mnemoli



Series: The Rogue Variable [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Broken Friendships, Friendship/Love, Hiding from Responsibilities, Loyalty, Multi, Myra is a Terrible Friend, Post-Blind Betrayal, Pre-Blind Betrayal, Watchers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-02-12 15:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21478339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemoli/pseuds/Mnemoli
Summary: Volume 4 of "The Rogue Variable"As everything Myra Larimer has gained seems poised to slip away from her, she tries to undo the damage she caused in the name of love. But will those she left behind forgive her so readily? And is she prepared to risk everything in the face of a new revelation?
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Scribe Haylen/Knight Rhys (Fallout)
Series: The Rogue Variable [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1275719
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. The Guarded Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight Rhys tries to understand his superior officer, and to continue denying the weakness inside himself.

The cold had come back to the Commonwealth in measured, sneaking strides, carried by the thick fog that wafted in from the sea. Summer had bloomed and faded before anyone had really taken the time to notice it. After all, day to day survival took a lot of focus, even for the soldiers of the Brotherhood of Steel. Night seemed only to bring winter nearer, crisp and unforgiving as the frost settled on the broken streets.

Knight Rhys shivered as he stood on the ramparts above the Cambridge Police Station's fortifications, his flight suit doing little to protect him from the wind that chilled his bones. His piercing hazel eyes were focused on the half-demolished buildings before him, flitting back and forth as he searched the darkness for hostile targets. Things had been quiet these past few months, but if Paladin Danse had taught him anything, it was to never be fooled by the illusion of peace. Enemies, both human and inhuman, were everywhere. It was only a matter of time before Gladius Outpost was attacked again, and Rhys would not allow himself to be complacent. Too many others relied on his vigilance.

He frowned as his brain dwelt too long on one individual in particular, her sparkling, intelligent eyes and infectious laugh filling his mind with thoughts. Too many thoughts. He gripped his laser rifle tighter, a low growl of frustration escaping his lips. Rhys had expected that he'd get better at banishing these ridiculous emotions over time. Like any temptation, denial was supposed to make it easier to resist. But time had not proved to be the Knight's ally in the slightest, and frankly, he wasn't sure how much more he could take. Every shared glance, every word in passing...it was maddening. This was more than any man could bear, he thought.

"Rhys?" called the exact voice he didn't want to hear, and his shoulders tensed involuntarily. "Did you want a jacket? It's freezing out here!"

He lowered his weapon as he turned to look behind him. Scribe Haylen was standing on the steps below him, a worn bomber jacket draped over one arm. She smiled up at him as their eyes met, those damned dimples of hers stained rosy by the cold. Rhys shook his head. "You know those jackets are for lancers only. I'm doing fine, Haylen."

She frowned slightly. "Don't make me play the medic card, big guy. You get hypothermia, and who's going to help me hold down the station?"

Rhys sighed testily. "I don't know. You can probably ask Paladin Costa to take over for me. He seems eager to please," he continued under his breath. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the way the leader of their backup squad had been eyeing up Haylen like a piece of prime brahmin. It was unprofessional and frankly disgusting.

Haylen's eyes narrowed. "What was that?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said flatly. "I'll take the damned coat."

Haylen beamed triumphantly as she climbed the battlements. "Glad you came to your senses. Sometimes I think you're stubborn just to be stubborn."

"Am not," he grumbled, helping her up the last few steps. "You're just so damn bossy."

She laughed, the sound banishing some of the chill from his body. Rhys could listen to that sound all day, if he were able. If only things were different. He smiled weakly, taking the coat from her and throwing it on.

Haylen looked out over the ruined city, her blue eyes wistful. "You ever wonder what it was like? Before the War, I mean."

He shook his head. "No sense in dreaming of things we'll never have," he mumbled, only somewhat talking about the Old World. "Dismantling and cataloging all that old technology's got your head stuck in the past."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "And standing out here by yourself waiting for attack's got you too worked up about the future," she shot back. "You could stand to relax a little."

"Top would want me to be careful," Rhys replied. "He always took the late shift, remember?"

Haylen sighed. "Sometimes, I think you want to be Danse so bad that you forget to be you, Law." Rhys drew in a sharp breath, and Haylen's eyes widened. "Sorry!" the Scribe shot back, looking away. "I know, we agreed that I...I'm sorry."

Rhys shook his head, fighting the urge to flick the bill of her cap down over her eyes. "It's fine. Just don't. You know that's a dangerous path."

She nodded. "You made that much clear," she mumbled. For a few moments, she stood beside him, her eyes downcast and her delicate fingers clenched into fists. Eventually, she turned back towards the steps. "I'm distracting you. Guess I should go get some sleep."

The Knight clenched his teeth, watching her go. He wanted so badly to tell her to stay, to watch the sunrise with him as it crested the crumbled brickwork. But Rhys knew what that would lead to, or at least what he feared it would lead to. He winced as the door to the station slammed shut behind him, even though he knew it was for the best. "Forgive me, Amber," he murmured to himself as he returned to his solitary vigil.

As much as he hated to admit it, Haylen's words had stung. For a long time, Rhys had considered his admiration of his commanding officer to be a strength. There was nothing wrong with trying to emulate the man he admired the most, and Danse had always been almost perfect in Rhys' estimation. The Paladin was courageous, loyal, and dedicated to upholding the ideals of the Brotherhood. Danse was compassionate towards his subordinates, fierce as a gale to his enemies. What was so wrong with trying to cultivate those same virtues in himself?

But what if Haylen was right? Had he lost himself somewhere along the way? Rhys shook his head. That didn't matter, even if it was true. The man he'd been before the Brotherhood...Lawrence Rhys wasn't worth a whole hell of a lot. The Brotherhood of Steel was all he had, was all he ever wanted to have. No matter what his weaker parts wanted instead. If that meant he had to sever all ties to himself, so be it. No one would miss the wretch, and if Haylen knew him, really knew him, she would never have even questioned the loss.

A burst of movement in the distance caught the Knight's attention, and he shook his thoughts free as he tried to identify what he was seeing. The limited visibility made it difficult to determine what he was seeing at first, but a flash of laser fire soon illuminated the side of a nearby building. Whoever was down there, they were having a hell of a fight. Rhys turned on his radio, speaking quickly into the mic. "Paladin Costa, we've got a situation. Looks like someone's in trouble out there."

Rhys reeled back as a loud yawn reverberated through his headset. "And?" Costa's groggy voice replied. "How's that our problem?"

"Sir?" the Knight questioned. "From what I can see, it's one guy with a laser rifle against a whole bunch of hostiles. I can't be sure at this distance, but looks like ferals."

"Are they attacking us?" the Paladin shot back, annoyed.

"No, sir, but --"

"Then it's not our problem. Don't bother me unless it's important next time." With that, the line went dead.

"Bastard," Rhys muttered under his breath. As if his respect for the man could diminish any more. From the beginning, Costa seemed determined to antagonize the Knight. He was everything Danse wasn't: loud, crass, and lazy as hell. How he'd ever gotten promoted so far up the chain was anyone's guess. Frankly, Rhys wouldn't be surprised if the man had been assigned to Gladius Outpost just to get him out of Elder Maxson's hair.

The Knight pulled a scope from his pack, training in on the fight in the distance. It was still hard to make out any details, but the person with the laser rifle seemed to be...was that power armor?

Without another thought, Rhys raced down the steps and through the compound gate, his breathing ragged as he ran into the fray. He was about halfway across the square before it occurred to him that he was probably disobeying orders, but by then, he didn't care. If that was a Brotherhood soldier, he couldn't just let them die. Rhys raised his rifle as he ran, firing shot after blazing red shot into the attacking horde of ferals.

"Are you all right?" he called to the defender as two ghouls fell to his fire. 

The armored man nodded. His lower face was mostly obscured by a green plaid bandana, so it was hard to read his expression, but his sharp brown eyes seemed to soften as he glanced over at the Knight. "It's good to see you too, Rhys," growled a familiar voice as the man reloaded his rifle. "Thank you for coming to my assistance."

Rhys' heart leapt. "Paladin Danse? What are you doing here?"

"I'd advise you to hold your questions until the area is secured," the Paladin replied, firing into the horde.

"Fair enough," Rhys agreed, picking off one feral after another. He couldn't help but grin as they mowed down the threat side by side, just like the old days. It had been too long since the Knight had seen any real action. Longer still since he'd shared a battlefield with his hero. It felt good to be back in the thick of things, if only for a time.

Together, Danse and Rhys made quick work of the remaining ferals. It was amazing what one extra gun could do in a combat situation, but of course that was why no one in the Brotherhood was ever supposed to work alone. Rhys felt a twinge in his stomach as he looked more closely at his superior officer. Danse was haggard in a way he'd never seen before. The Paladin's cheeks were gaunt and pale, dark bags under his brown eyes giving him a skeletal appearance. Even his thick black hair hadn't been spared, strands of silver creeping about his temples like frost. It had been less than a year since the last time the Knight had seen Danse. What had happened since the Paladin had left for the _Prydwen_ with Larimer in tow? And where the hell was Larimer, anyway?

Danse met his eyes, nodding slightly in approval. "Thank you again for the backup," he said. "I'm surprised you came alone."

Rhys sighed. "I did ask Paladin Costa for help, but he'd rather sleep than help someone in trouble," he grumbled.

The Paladin snorted. "Costa's the one they brought in to replace me? I suppose you're the reason the whole outpost isn't overrun by now, then." He shook his head. "Costa. On field duty. What is Arthur thinking?"

Rhys allowed himself a slight grin. "It's really good to have you back, sir."

"I'm sorry I haven't swung by to check on you and Haylen," Danse replied. "Unfortunately, I haven't had much freedom as of late."

"Babysitting a new recruit will do that," Rhys teased. "I remember how difficult Haylen made my life that first year." His smile faded. "Speaking of Larimer...where is she?"

Danse's eyes hardened, his hands gripping his laser rifle tighter. Rhys' eyes were drawn to the weapon, the strange mods and unfamiliar paint job catching his eye. The barrel had been decorated with a splash of green paint, the phrase _Ipse Venena Bibas _painted carefully across it in Larimer's neat cursive. This must be her gun, he realized, the twinge in his gut growing into genuine concern. Rhys freely admitted he disliked Larimer, almost to an absurd degree. But all the same, he wouldn't...if Danse had her gun...

The Paladin glanced off towards the river, lost in thought for a long moment. It was clear that he was trying to figure out how to respond. With every second of delay, Rhys' apprehension grew. Was Larimer dead? Was that why Danse looked like he'd fallen off the wrong end of a Deathclaw?

"I'm sorry, sir," Rhys murmured. "We don't have to talk about it if you --"

"Larimer's been taken by the Institute," Danse finally managed. "And I let them take her."

Rhys froze. Of all the possible scenarios, he honestly couldn't admit that he expected to hear that. "What happened?" he asked. "You wouldn't have done that, sir. Not without good reason."

Danse's eyes were distant, haunted. "Myra loved me, Rhys," he murmured. "She trusted me. I have to get her back, but I...how can I rescue her from a place I cannot go? I've searched for a solution, spent months trying to find another courser chip that wasn't destroyed in combat. She was so afraid to fall into their hands...I should have let her die. I should have, but I couldn't lose her."

The Knight's heart clenched in anguish. He'd never seen Danse so lost, so hopeless. Even in the face of certain defeat, the Paladin had always seemed so strong, had kept Rhys and Haylen going against impossible odds with his confidence and calm direction. The man before him was a shell of the man Rhys had known, and there was only one person to blame. Fucking Larimer. She'd done something to Danse, had weakened him with love, had made him know fear in a way he never had before. Seeing his mentor in such a state only confirmed to Rhys how dangerous attachments were. If love could break a man like Danse, hell, it could destroy anyone.

Rhys sighed. "I...don't know what to say," he mumbled. He clapped Danse on the back. "But come on. Haylen would love to see you, and no offense, sir, but you look like you could really use some rest."

"Thank you, Rhys," Danse replied glumly. "I'm not certain when the last time I slept was." He plodded slowly after the Knight, though his feet seemed reluctant to touch the uneven ground.

The Knight scowled, his heavy brows knitted. Wherever Larimer was, he hoped she knew the mess she'd left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry I've been away so long, dear readers! I lost my job (again) and even before that I was really struggling to get words down because of how tired I was. But we're back! I hope you missed me as much as I missed you.
> 
> If you're enjoying "Writing on the Walls," I am still working on it. I just wanted to make sure we got some main story back in our lives too! The future chapters won't be so short, I hope!
> 
> "Ipse Venena Bibas" is part of a Catholic prayer against evil and loosely translates to "Drink the poison yourself." I see it as Myra's little "fuck you" to her enemies.
> 
> -Mnemoli


	2. The Director's Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton struggles with letting Myra return to the surface.

_**The Institute, 4 Months Earlier:** _

Clayton Holdren sat carefully on the edge of his chair, glancing around the conference room table nervously. The tension in the room was palpable, every passing moment increasing the weight as though gravity was finally breaking through the Institute's safeguards and crushing the life out of everyone in the underground facility. If only they could be so lucky. No, whatever cataclysm had led Father to assembling the Directorate would not be as simple as a life support malfunction. Things were never that simple. And the longer the old man sat in his chair at the head of the table, his emerald eyes distant, his mouth hardened in a steely line like the jaws of a wizened old cougar, the harder it was to imagine that anything good would come from this meeting. 

Clayton's eyes met the rheumy blues of Dr. Evan Watson, acting Department Head of Advanced Systems. The man smiled weakly, fiddling with his hands on the table in front of him. Poor Evan. It was hard enough being named Department Head under normal circumstances. The scientists of the Institute were highly competitive, naturally, and whenever there was a shift in the power dynamics of the facility there was bound to be turmoil and hurt feelings in abundance. The balding, weak-faced man who sat opposite Clayton had to know that he would have never achieved his current position if something hadn't happened to Dr. Li. No one could match Madison's brilliance, a fact which had long angered the natural-born residents of the Institute. Li had been an outsider, but she had been one hell of a scientist. It was such a shame she'd turned out to be one hell of a traitor as well.

Allie Filmore patted Evan's hand gently, muttering some half-intentioned platitude under her breath to calm him down. The Chief Engineer wasn't exactly the caring sort, but even she seemed to recognize the bind poor Dr. Watson was in. Seeing his colleagues looking after each other almost brought a smile to Clayton's face. In fact, it would have, if the muscle relaxants Myra had inadvertently fed him had worn off enough for him to regain the full control of his face. Dr. Holdren had regained control over most of his body, thank goodness, but his mouth and cheeks were still unpleasantly numb and tingly.

Clayton pointedly avoided looking at Dr. Ayo. The head of the SRB was already suspicious of both Holdren and Myra. The last thing he wanted was to give the man any more reason to persecute them. While direct interrogation was off the table for now, Justin Ayo was a creative and sadistic man. He would find a way to get to the truth, sooner or later. And if that happened before Alan and Clayton had a chance to develop and enact their own plan, both they and Myra would be completely screwed.

Myra cleared her throat, drawing the eyes of the Directorate to her. She nervously wheeled back and forth in her wheelchair, smiling awkwardly at the assembly. "Sorry. It's my first one of these," she said quietly. "Are these meetings always this boring?"

Father shuddered as he seemed to regain himself, smiling gently over at her. "I'm terribly sorry, Mother. You must excuse me. I...I was thinking of the best way to tell you all this. I'm afraid there's no easy way to say it, so I'll just come out with it: the operation in Bunker Hill has failed. The Railroad managed to overrun our position and intercept all four of our rogue synths, along with whatever data they were carrying." He sighed heavily, wiping his eyes with his hand. "Obviously this is a tremendous and devastating failure."

Myra frowned. "Bunker Hill?"

"I knew it!" Interrupted Dr. Ayo. "I told you we had a mole, sir. How many more failed operations do we need to have before you let me do something about it?"

Father waved dismissively at him. "Yes, yes. Very good, Dr. Ayo. But I'm afraid the situation is much more complicated than that. It seems the Brotherhood of Steel was also present at the settlement. We lost the entire expeditionary force. That's three coursers, as well as quite a few of our more sophisticated shock troops, gone. Now," he continued, standing from his chair and turning to look out the great window behind him, "One enemy on our doorstep is regrettable, but we've dealt with interference from the Railroad before. Two enemies? That begins to look like carelessness. How did the Brotherhood know our plans? They're hardly the spies the Railroad are. From my understanding, they prefer to shoot first and learn second. Barbarians."

Allie stared at the Director, her eyes wide. "You can't be serious! How could this happen? We kept those plans completely close to the chest! No one outside of the Directorate even knew what we were planning."

Father nodded. "Yes. But perhaps not close enough. I'm afraid we have to assume the worst. Someone in this room must be a traitor."

Five sets of eyes cast wide, nervous glances around the room. Only Father seemed to remain calm, his cool, stoic mask never faltering as he watched the Directorate squirm. Clayton noted the old man's demeanor with both respect and grave concern. Father was up to something. But what? What could he possibly hope to gain by setting the division heads at each other's throats?

"Now, before you get any absurd notions of accusing her again," Father continued, "I'll have you know that this latest security breach has certainly cleared my mother of any suspicion. After all, she knew nothing of our plans. Is that correct, mother?"

Myra scoffed. "No one ever tells me anything around here. I have a hard enough time just finding out what food supplements are available at any given day. Though perhaps that's good," she added, shooting a pointed look at Dr. Holdren. "I was thinking of going on a diet anyway."

"Nonsense," the Director replied, smiling gently at her. "You need all the strength you can get if your going to heal." His eyes hardened, and he scowled back across the table. "So. As the only one above suspicion, Mother, who do you think has betrayed us?"

The young woman froze. "You're asking me?" she said in disbelief.

Father nodded. "In your time with us, I know you've gotten to know our Directorate fairly well. Some members better than others. So I want your honest assessment. Given what you know of us, who here betrayed our trust?"

Clayton gulped, doing his best not to look worried. He was innocent of this particular act of treason, at least, but considering that Myra had just found out that he was drugging her, the biologist suspected that he was fairly high on her shit list for the time being. He wouldn't be shocked if she accused him, if only to get revenge for his betrayal of her trust. If only he'd had time to explain, to help her see that he'd been trying to protect her...but it was too late. His work, his life, and her life as well hinged on her decision.

Myra's eyes met his, and he winced at the hurt and confusion in her soft emerald gaze. She held his gaze for a long time, deep and probing. Clayton found himself transfixed, unable to hide from her as she studied him relentlessly. Was this what his slides felt like? It seemed like the room had shrunk down to just the two of them --no, farther even than that. Holdren felt invaded, overwhelmed by her. And yet, for the first time he could remember, he felt seen. He felt understood. Clayton exhaled gently. If this was the end, if she handed him over to death, perhaps there were worse ways to go.

She smiled slightly at him before looking away, and Holdren almost liquefied into his chair, painfully hollow. Though she was sitting right next to him, he felt her absence like a gangrenous wound. For now, at least, he had been spared. But more than ever, he needed to talk to her. To come clean.

Myra's eyes fixated on Dr. Ayo next, and Clayton's stomach fluttered in anticipation. Of course! Even if Dr. Ayo wasn't the mole, he was her biggest enemy. If she could eliminate the head of the SRB, it would make her position much more secure, among many other things. But as seconds slipped by, the scientist's certainty diminished significantly. Was she not going to accuse Justin? Why not? What was taking her so long?

She shook her head, glancing over at Dr. Filmore and Dr. Watson. Clayton watched her face twist with confusion. "I...what?" she muttered. "But that's..."

Finally, Myra cleared her throat. "Shaun. None of them leaked that information, did they?" She raised an unsteady hand, pointing at the Director himself. "You burned your own men, didn't you? Why?"

The table erupted in cries of disbelief and anger.

"Bullshit!" snarled Dr. Ayo. "How dare you accuse our leader of such...such..."

"Is she telling the truth, sir?" Allie asked coolly, placing a hand on the SRB head's shoulder. He stiffened under her touch, but at least it put an end to his stammering. "Did you leak our plans to the enemy?"

Father nodded, his eyes beaming with pride. "Well done, Mother. How did you figure it out?"

Myra snorted. "It's what I would have done, if I wanted to find out what secrets my advisers were keeping from me. Nothing like turning your people on each other to see where everyone stands. I will admit, I'm surprised you had the balls."

"Well, I am your son," the Director replied. "And, I'm pleased that you are as ruthless and cunning as I am. I was hoping that was the case." He turned back to the rest of the table. "I'm sorry for putting you all through that. For the record, I never intended our mission to Bunker Hill to succeed. When we began planning it, I had hoped to send Mother into the field, to test her resolve against two of her rumored associates. However, due to her injuries, I had to rethink my strategy."

"But the coursers!" Ayo exclaimed, leaping to his feet and knocking Allie's hand away with an annoyed swat. "How could you waste resources like that?"

Father chuckled. "You think I would put such valuable tech in a suicide situation? No, the coursers you sent are safe and sound. I had them replaced with scavenger units. Amazing what a full face mask will do to disguise weaker troops, isn't it?"

"But why take the risk at all?" Watson protested. "And why put us through all this nonsense? Are we just a joke to you?"

"Careful," Clayton cautioned, though he shared the man's sentiment. Father's behavior had been growing increasingly erratic, but this? This was insane.

The Director frowned. "Not a joke, no. More a potential threat. I know that each one of you has known me for your whole lives. You are used to my leadership. But a time is fast approaching when you will need to adjust to a new leader. I needed to prove to you that the one I've chosen to take my place is worthy."

"Take your place?" Evan asked, confused. "You're still very young, sir. Why would you step down now?"

Father shook his head. "I'm old, now, Dr. Watson. And more than that, I'm...dying."

Myra gasped, wheeling over to his side. "What? But how?"

"It turns out that even the Institute can't fix every problem," the Director replied with a sad smile. "I know this will be hard for you to accept, but if the Institute is going to continue to be a beacon of hope for humanity, you will all need to be strong and carry on without me. The time has come for me to name a successor. And to that end, Mother, I am so very pleased that you returned to us. I trust that as the next Director, you will lead the Institute into a glorious new age."

"Oh boy," Clayton grumbled. He'd really hoped that Father would reconsider his decision to name Myra as the next Director. There were so many reasons why it was a terrible idea. Even though Clayton was fond of the woman, he couldn't look past the obvious issues. She hated the Institute. She was a high ranking officer in several enemy factions. And of course, she wasn't...ready. "Sir, are you sure that's appropriate?" he asked.

Myra wrung her hands, her eyes darting around the room. "I'm not really sure that I --"

"She's not even a scientist!" interrupted Dr. Ayo. "I'm still not convinced she isn't a Railroad plant! How can you possibly justify this?" The head of the SRB glared daggers at Myra across the table, his body poised to strike.

"I really think --" Myra continued.

"With how much you've suggested that Myra is a mole," Clayton shot back, ignoring her, "someone might think you're hiding your own connections. If we searched through your personal logs, Justin, I wonder what we'd find."

"Just what are you implying?" snarled Ayo.

"Why isn't anyone listening to me?" Myra blurted, her shock and discomfort quickly being consumed by her anger.

"Nothing. Not yet," Dr. Holdren replied to Justin dismissively. "It would just be such a shame to see your career come to an untimely end, now that you're nearly through waiting to become the real head of your division. What did happen to Dr. Zimmer, anyway?"

"That's quite enough of your insubordinate tone, Dr. Ayo," Father countered sternly. He turned to Clayton. "As for you, Dr. Holdren, I'd advise you to hold your tongue. You may be a member of this Directorate, but that does not give you the authority to threaten other members of our governing body. If you can't behave yourself, I'm certain that Dr. Karlin would not mind sitting in on council meetings on your behalf."

Clayton sighed. "Of course, sir. I meant no disrespect. It's just...you understand why this decision might rattle a few cages around here, right?"

"Can everyone just shut up for a goddamned minute?" Myra roared. "Listen to me! I don't want the job! I just want to go home!"

"You are home!" the Director replied, his breathing ragged, burdened with barely contained emotion. "There's nothing for you out there. Humanity's one hope is here, in the Institute! Why can't you see that?"

"You're wrong!" Myra cried, shaking her head violently. "I know you don't understand it, Shaun, since you've never lived out there. Yes, it's horrible on the surface sometimes. Every day brings a new threat, a new challenge. Life up there...it's not easy." She sighed, her eyes focused on some distant vista. "But there's so much good, too! Our...my world might be gone, Shaun, but there are still people I care about up there. Good people who just are looking for a chance to fight for something better."

Father huffed dismissively. "They've had 200 years, Mother. Face it. Things up there won't ever get better. Those good people will all die horrible deaths. They'll be cut down by disease, monsters, or most likely other people. Just as they do every generation. And if you insist on returning to them, you will die alongside them. Far too young, and without anything to hold on to. But if you stay, we can build a better world. We can cleanse the surface, start again. Redefine humanity, and allow our species to reach new heights." He smiled softly at her, trembling fingers tucking a stray strand if silvery hair behind her ear. "Isn't that better than allowing humanity's remnants to drown in their own filth?"

Myra rejected his gaze, her green eyes flashing defiantly. "You keep talking about building a better world," she hissed, "but people are already doing that in the Commonwealth. Civilization is being reborn under your nose, and you can't even give it a chance!"

"Why can't you just let me take care of you?" the Director argued. "I know it's too late. But why can't I ever be enough for you?"

"Because your sterile, isolated world is dying!" she cried, her voice cracking. "Because you...you're dying! And the Institute's what took you away from me! They stole everything from us! Na...your father, our time as a family...why can't you understand that?"

"I know it's not what you hoped for," Father replied softly. "But I'm all you have left."

"Like hell you are," Myra hissed. "You have no idea what I have left. Or whom. But trust me, what's out there? It's way, way better than this." She wheeled out of the room angrily, her eyes brimming with tears.

Father watched her go, a stunned look on his face. For a long time, no one moved or spoke. It was as if the life had fled from the room at Myra's heels. Nervous glances were exchanged among the Directorate, but no one dared to look at Father. Clayton, for his part, was certain that his stomach would never unclench. He was proud of Myra for clinging tight to her beliefs. But on the other hand, he was terrified for what this fight would cost her. Myra Larimer had many enemies already in the Institute. At least if she accepted her role as the next Director, she'd have had a modicum of safety. As it was, if Father no longer kept her close...

One thing was certain. Unless he acted quickly, this situation was bound to spiral out of control. Holdren coughed gently, preparing to make his exit. "I--"

Dr. Filmore stood, interrupting him. "I...need to go check. On a thing. Excuse me." She sped away, doing little to hide her retreat.

The others soon followed. In a matter of moments, it was only the Director and Clayton left.

"I...I'm sorry, sir," Dr. Holdren said softly, hoping a little sympathy would keep the situation in hand.

"It's my own fault," Father sighed. His eyes did not move from the door. "I knew this whole experiment was a gamble. But I really thought we had it this time. I really thought she'd see how all of this was for the greater good. I just never anticipated that she'd get so...attached to the surface."

"I'll talk to her," Clayton replied. "Who knows? People say a lot of things when they're upset. Maybe we just need to give her some time."

"Time," Father retorted, "is the one resource we are nearly out of." With that, he slowly walked to the door, making his way towards his quarters and leaving Dr. Holdren behind.

* * *

Dr. Holdren rushed as discreetly as possible to Myra's quarters, nearly knocking over a service synth on the way. He was so distracted that he actually almost apologized to the Gen 2, his words catching in his throat as his better sense caught up to him. He dug his nails into his palm, doing his best to calm down and be the rational man of science he was supposed to be. Myra was safe, for now. There was no reason to panic, not unless she...

He stepped into her room without even bothering to knock, catching Myra half out of her wheelchair as she struggled to stand. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, her legs shaking and bucking like a newborn foal's. Clayton rushed to her side with a soft cry, trying to lead her back to her chair.

"Miss Larimer, be careful!" he reprimanded softly.

She smacked him hard, her eyes wide with shock and fury. "Get off me! And get the hell out of my room!"

Clayton held a hand to his stinging cheek, stammering in disbelief. "I...I know you're upset, but..."

"Upset?" she exclaimed. "I'm so far beyond upset that you'd need a waystation between it and me! First you drug me, then I'm dragged to that stupid meeting and Shaun tries to make me his successor? I'm done. This whole thing's just..." she collapsed with a choked sob.

Holdren caught her, awkwardly holding her away from his torso in half-folded arms. "Please, try to calm down. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Myra's tears flowed freely now, her body shuddering with each gasping cry. "I...I just got him back. But he...he's dying. And kind of evil. This is so fucked up, I can't...I...I can't! I have to get out of here!"

Clayton sighed. He felt sorry for her. He really did. But she had to be more rational than this. If she did the normal Myra Larimer thing and took off half-cocked, they were probably both dead. "Miss Larimer, you have to trust me," he pleaded. "If you leave now, the Institute will be forced to send agents after you. You've been here too long. You've seen too much."

"That's rich, coming from you!" Myra snarled. "How can I possibly trust you? You've been drugging me, Dr. Holdren."

"I have," he admitted begrudgingly, helping her off the floor and back into her wheelchair. "But it's not what it looks like. I'm trying...damn it, Miss Larimer, I've been trying to protect you! Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

"By keeping me weak and sedated?" she asked incredulously, wiping her eyes. "How could taking away my ability to fight possibly protect me?" Myra shook her head. "No, whatever this is all about, I highly doubt it was ever about keeping me safe. I know your kind. You're trying to save your own skin."

Clayton sighed. "That...may be part of it, yes. But I promise, I would never do anything that wasn't also in your best interest. You're...valuable to me."

Myra scoffed. "Get in line, Clayton. I've heard it all before. When will you people get it through your thick skulls that I'm not some messiah? I can't magically fix the Commonwealth, or singlehandedly bring your organization to power. I'm just a fucking housewife! Hell, less than that. I no longer have a home. Or a family." She hauled herself out of her wheelchair to her full height, her eyes half-crazed with determination. "What I do have is unfinished business on the surface. Now, get me my Pip-Boy so I can leave. Or do I have to hurt you?"

The scientist nodded weakly. "I'll help you. But you have to be patient. You need to stay in the chair until we can get you to the relay. If they know you're already healed, there are certain individuals who would want to take you apart, and I can't guarantee that they'd put you back together again."

She studied him, surprised. "You...you're really afraid, aren't you?"

Clayton nodded. "I told you, I can't let anything happen to you, Miss Larimer."

"Why?" she asked softly, her face so close to his that he could smell the floral scent of her hair. "Why do you care about me?"

"I..." Clayton gulped, the chain around his neck feeling like a ten pound weight. He couldn't tell her the truth. If she knew... "We have some mutual friends," he lied. It wasn't entirely false, to be fair. He certainly wasn't friends with the Railroad, but he was sympathetic to their cause. Hell, he'd even support them if they would just agree to use less violent methods. If they'd just agree that humans still had to take precedence over synths. "Friends who still care about what happens to you."

Myra smirked. "I knew it!" she whispered triumphantly. "You're an actual mole, aren't you?"

Dr. Holdren nodded slightly. He hadn't expected her to be so easy to lie to. "Obviously no one can know," he continued. "But I wasn't going to let you take the fall. If you run, they'll assume you're spying and kill you. If you stay for a while, you can help me."

"You want to take Ayo down, is that it?" Myra asked.

"It would certainly make my life easier if he were gone," Holdren admitted. That was true, although not necessarily for the reason she thought. "You might not like it, but I'm as close to a friend as you have down here."

Myra eased herself back into her chair, her emerald eyes distant as she thought about her options. "How long would I need to wait?" she asked finally.

"Not long. Give me a few days to ease you off the muscle relaxants so you won't be compromised immediately. Just, promise you'll keep acting vulnerable, okay?" he whispered harshly.

She nodded. "Then I can go?"

Clayton sighed. "We will also need to find a way to implicate Dr. Ayo in your disappearance. Irrefutable evidence that he's betrayed Father. That may take some time."

Myra bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. "I just hope nothing happens to my friends while I'm stuck here," she muttered. "I have promises to keep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER: Myra returns to the Brotherhood and Danse after five months in the Institute. Will they finally be able to get the time together they so long for?
> 
> A/N: Hey, You!
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment to thank you. You might be new to this story, or maybe you’ve been here since Deacon first watched Myra stumble out of the vault almost two years ago, but I’m so humbled and grateful that you’ve taken the time to read this far in such a ridiculously long story. Your support and comments mean everything to me, and I’m happy that my little epic has held your interest, even with me being gone so much.
> 
> I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch/not writing for such a long time. I could make a thousand excuses about how hard things have been for me, but let’s be honest: things have been pretty hard for everyone lately. I’m not special. I’m just a writer who got too overwhelmed and had to take a small step back. Then another. Suddenly, it was almost a year, and I’ll admit I hated myself for it. I felt like I let the characters down. That I let myself down. Perhaps most crucially, that I’d let you down, no matter when you came into the story. I’m so, so sorry.
> 
> That being said, I think I’m finally in a good place again. Updates won’t be as regular as they once were. Life and a radically more intensive work schedule has seen to that. But I am going to resume updating again, without deadlines or goals I have to meet. I’m planning on writing an hour or so a day and just...seeing where that gets us. Hopefully, I’ll be able to be semi-regular again, but I probably won’t be posting 2 times a week like clockwork any more. It might be in your best interest to bookmark this story so you can know when I post again. I’ll let you know if I figure out a better way to keep in touch.
> 
> Thanks again, and keep on surviving out there in the Wasteland that is life right now. You’re not alone. We’ve got this.
> 
> -Mnemoli


	3. The Awaited Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Myra returns to the Brotherhood, Danse is understandably thrilled. But will they finally have time for themselves, or will duty intervene again?

Pain and darkness pressed in on Danse, pulling him out of a fitful sleep. He clutched his head, stifling an agonized groan. Damn it. The headaches were still getting worse.

He eased himself out of bed, fumbling his way blindly towards the desk in his quarters on the _Prydwen_. He groped around for the medication Dr. Li had provided back in Peregrine. His supply was running dangerously low, and every day it helped less. Whatever this affliction was, he seemed to be running out of time to find a solution for it.

As he injected the substance into his arm, his thoughts drifted to Myra. They often did when the pain was this severe. The thought of the woman he loved helped him focus, seemed to reduce the pain. But it was no substitute for having her by his side.

It had been five months since Dr. Li had sent Myra back to the Institute. For all Danse knew, his beloved was long since dead. He did his best not to believe that, but as the days continued and any sign of her failed to appear, he had to consider that, perhaps, not even the Institute had been able to cure Myra.

“At least if these headaches don’t subside, I’ll be joining you shortly,” he muttered.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately, he supposed, depending on the case -- his vision began to clear as the medication took effect. He could almost feel the stabbing pain being beaten into submission, and he sighed in relief. It wouldn’t last, but at least now he could think.

The Paladin stripped out of his sleepwear, grimacing as the sweat-soaked garments clung to his skin. The nightmares had gotten worse again. Every night brought a new, visceral vision. Most of the time, it involved Myra. Images of her lying dead before him, her blood on his hands. Or, perhaps worse, of her betraying him, leaving him dying at her feet. It was getting increasingly hard to dismiss these dreams as mere paranoia. Some days, they felt more real than the waking world.

He had just managed to change into a clean set of fatigues when there was a loud screech from the intercom. 

“Damn it!” he hissed, clutching his still-aching head. The _Prydwen_’s com system had been acting up lately. To be perfectly honest, it was always suboptimal. But this level of interference was ridiculous.

“_Senior Paladin Danse, report to the Command Deck_,” Kells’ voice sputtered through the whines and static.

Danse sighed, quickly tying Myra’s bandana around his neck. It wasn’t regulation, but he rarely went anywhere without it. The green plaid fabric had long since stopped smelling of her, but it was all he had left. That and her guns, but after his return to base he hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch them. Instead, they hung by his desk. 

The laser rifle he had once carried, repainted and modified into a truly impressive weapon of war by Myra’s patient hands, covered most of the area, hanging on a wide canvas strap. Her silenced pistol was dwarfed by it, small and unassuming -- but as Danse had learned, no less potent a weapon -- held in Myra’s shoulder holster and hanging beside the rifle. It had also been a gift, but not from Danse. He tried not to ponder which one Myra treasured more as he turned away from his desk and headed into the _Prydwen_’s corridors.

Elder Maxson greeted him with a wary nod as he arrived on deck, his hands clasped behind him. “How are you feeling today, Danse?” the Elder inquired.

“Less than stellar,” Danse replied, a bit more brusque than he intended. His head was still killing him, even if it hurt less than before he took the medication. That was troubling. The serum used to work almost immediately. Was this another indication that he was gaining a tolerance for it?

“I’m truly sorry to hear it,” Arthur said, his bushy eyebrows knitting with concern.

“No offense, sir, but did you call me down here for a health check, or do you have a mission for me?” Danse asked. He wasn’t in the mood for this again. Next, Maxson would suggest that Cade take another look at the Paladin, which would just mean more tests. More delays. And no results.

Maxson snorted slightly. “All business today, then. Good. You’ll be pleased to know that we found her.”

Danse stared at the Elder, his eyes wide. Suddenly, his other concerns seemed trivial. Could it really be true? “What? We’ve located Larimer? She’s...alive?”

Arthur nodded. “A patrol picked her up a week or so ago near Malden, just outside a medical research facility. What she was doing there or why she didn’t report in immediately on her return is anyone’s guess.”

Danse’s heart raced. Myra was back. She was home. “A week ago? Where is she? I must see her at once.”

Maxson shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Danse. She’s in custody. Quinlan is talking to her now.”

“In custody?” the Paladin frowned. “For how long? I should have been informed.”

“And here I am,” the Elder said gruffly. “Informing you. You know our protocols when one of our brothers or sisters has been MIA, Danse. We have to find out what happened to her. Without interference,” he added. “The only reason you’re hearing about this now is out of courtesy.”

“I’m her b...her sponsor!” Danse exclaimed. “Knight Larimer is my responsibility. I should be there when you interrogate her. I should have been involved from the beginning!”

“A responsibility you forfeited when you allowed her to fall into enemy hands,” Maxson replied coolly. “She’s been with the Institute for almost half a year. We need to know if she’s been compromised. For all we know, that’s not even Larimer in there. It could be a synth abomination.”

“And you think Proctor Quinlan will be able to figure that out?” Danse shot back. He couldn’t stand the idea of Quinlan questioning her, analyzing her every move and response with his cold, suspicious mind. The Paladin knew all too well how fragile many of Myra’s answers about her whereabouts could be, especially if Quinlan dug back a few months before her disappearance. Everything they’d been through, making Myra sacrifice her allegiances and abandon her friends...none of it would matter at all if Quinlan got to her anyway. No Oath would protect her if her past with the Railroad came to light.

“Are you questioning the Proctor’s capabilities?” Maxson asked.

“Not remotely!” Danse protested. “But in this instance, we both know that I am far more qualified. The Proctor has only met Knight Larimer on a handful of occasions. I know her, Arthur! Better than almost anyone! Why won’t you let me assist in the interrogation?”

Maxson sighed heavily. “That may be true, but can you honestly tell me that you would be able to perform your duty completely objectively?”

“Have you ever known me to do otherwise?” Danse asked. The question hurt more than he expected. The Paladin had always been all too aware of his duty, and all too pleased to fulfill it. He had made the hard calls, had even killed friends when the need arose for it. To have his commitment questioned for any reason wounded him deeply.

Arthur’s lip twitched slightly, his steely eyes meeting Danse’s. “Not in so many words. But you have to admit, your track record when it comes to Knight Larimer is...far from objective. You’re softer where she’s concerned. And in this instance, that concerns me. Especially from what you told us in your debrief.”

Danse winced. He was wondering when Arthur was going to bring up his report of the accident. “Sir, I had no choice. The crash nearly killed us both. If I hadn’t surrendered...if Dr. Li hadn’t intervened…”

The Elder cleared his throat. “So you’ve said. But the point remains that you not only surrendered to civilians and failed to retrieve an important asset, but you sent a subordinate into enemy hands. That is not the call I would have expected a Senior Paladin to make, especially you. Larimer has changed you, and while in many ways it has been for the better, the fact remains that she has a considerable influence on your judgement. You can understand why I can’t permit you to intervene in this matter.”

Danse grimaced, his frustration barely kept in check. Arthur was right, of course. He usually was. And the Paladin knew that his old friend was trying to keep both him and Myra clear of suspicion. Even though she’d taken the Oath, there were still many members of the hierarchy that didn’t trust Myra’s commitment. To have been lost again for so long, so soon after she’d made her vows...objectively, Danse knew what it looked like. 

“Very well,” he conceded warily. “But can you at least promise that you’ll keep Quinlan in check? You know as well as I do that his methods can be...extreme.”

Maxson nodded. “I haven’t left him alone with her, Danse. Cade is with him for now, and you know our medical officer’s thoughts on more intense forms of persuasion. As soon as we’re done here, I also aim to question her more myself. So, are we done here?”

Danse nodded. “Just...one more request, if I may.” He gulped, steeling his resolve. “As soon as it’s prudent, will you send for me? I really must see her.”

Arthur smiled, that rare glimpse of softness he only seemed to show his oldest friend. “As soon as I’m confident she’s told us everything, I’ll release her to your care, Danse. Don’t worry. I have no intention of keeping you apart for longer than is strictly necessary.” He patted Danse on the shoulder. “And should she be cleared,” he whispered, “I hope you plan on keeping her close this time.”

Danse’s eyes widened as his eyes met Arthur’s again. For a moment, he could have sworn the Elder winked at him. 

“I…” he started. But Maxson was already gone, leaving the Paladin alone. He sighed, sitting on one of the benches. His heart rate showed no signs of slowing, excitement at knowing that Myra was alive matched pace for pace by a still-growing dread at her being revealed as a traitor.

Maxson’s caution wasn’t unfounded. While Myra may have appeared to come home, it was entirely possible that she had been replaced by a synth and sent to spy on the Brotherhood. The Institute had gotten increasingly bold over the last few months, and their agents had been acting more and more erratic and violent when they did emerge. 

Sommerville had only been the beginning. More and more farms had been burned. The Minutemen had also reported major losses over the past few months as settlement after settlement went dark, slaughtered to a man. In the interest of preserving peace in the Commonwealth, Elder Maxson had been in talks with Colonel Garvey about the possibility of sharing limited equipment and intelligence between the Airport and the Castle, a move which he never would have considered under normal circumstances. It just demonstrated how desperate the situation was becoming.

Negotiations had naturally reached a standstill, however. Elder Maxson demanded that the Minutemen be subsumed into the Brotherhood of Steel, following all the same standards and regulations as the order did. He particularly sought for the removal of ghouls from the Minutemen ranks. Preston, on the other hand, refused this “insulting and tyrannical request,” countering that the Minutemen stood for freedom for all individuals, no matter their circumstances or origin. Thus, conditions had continued to deteriorate, settlements continued to fall, and no one seemed to have a solution.

If Danse didn’t know any better, he’d have suspected that the Minutemen were behind the attacks themselves, staging massacres in an effort to win concessions from the Brotherhood. Or perhaps the rumors he’d heard were true, and the Railroad was behind it, trying to destabilize the other factions to gain a bigger foothold for their precious synths. There certainly were a fair number of synth remains found at the destroyed sites.

Still, Danse wasn’t convinced of either of these theories. He knew it wasn’t the Brotherhood, of course. That left only the Institute. The very organization he’d given Myra over to twice now. There was no telling what they’d done to her while she was in their maniacal clutches. Maybe he should have just let her die at Peregrine. At least then she’d have died free.

He pulled a small piece of cardstock from his pocket, worrying the worn edges with his fingers as he studied the picture. Our Lady of Victory. Myra’s gift to him, a token of her husband and her faith. It was worn and wrinkled even more now, though Danse treated the card with the utmost care. All things faded with time, he mused. Even those that people held most precious. All things, perhaps, but love.

Danse still had faith in Myra, in her almost supernatural ability to beat the odds. More than that, he had faith in the bond between them, in his love for her that had only grown in her absence. He trusted that all he’d need to do was to look at her to know that she was still herself. Dreams and possibilities be damned, he had to believe that she was safe. That she was home. That she was still his.

The Paladin closed his eyes, visualizing her the way he had for months now. There she was, smiling widely at him, her stark white hair shining as it fluttered in the breeze by the reservoir. Her deep emerald eyes warmed with the light of love as they met his, pure and blindingly strong. He heard her laugh, distorted in his memory, perhaps idealized, but it stirred his heart all the same. Myra Larimer, the infuriating woman who made him happier than he could ever remember being. She was alive. She was painfully close, in one of the buildings just below the _Prydwen_. All he had to do was wait, and he would see her again.

* * *

He wasn’t sure how much time passed. Perhaps only an hour or so. Perhaps he’d drifted off and lost half a day or more. It wasn’t outside the realm of recent possibility. Lately his constant hypervigilance had been largely lost to fatigue. It was a skill he needed to reclaim.

What roused him wasn’t pain, for once. Or the intercom. Instead, it was a familiar voice, rougher than he remembered and yet still so a part of him that he almost thought it was a dream.

“If it isn’t Paladin Danse, taking a nap in public! They kick you out of your quarters?”

He looked up, drinking in the sight in front of him. There she was, scarred and filthy, but never more beautiful. Her playful smirk was weaker than usual, but still reflected in her eyes as they studied him.

“Myra!” Danse cried, leaping to his feet. Any caution he should have had about her identity faded the moment he laid eyes on her. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her tightly against him. “I thought I’d lost you.”

She hugged him back weakly, her body stiff against his. “Sir,” she murmured, “we’re not alone.”

He froze, looking past her, his eyes finally registering the two knights who accompanied her. The men shared a bemused look between them before offering him a halfhearted salute. 

Danse pulled back, trying to think of an excuse. “Uh…” He adjusted the collar of her flight suit, his cheeks and ears burning. “Knight Larimer, you’ve gotten sloppy at grappling escapes! Did you learn nothing from our last lesson?”

Myra snorted in reply. “Good one,” she whispered mockingly. “Sorry, sir!” she exclaimed loudly, her freckled cheeks stained with embarrassment as well. “I’m afraid I’ve been out of practice. Perhaps I need a refresher.”

One of the knights cleared his throat awkwardly. “We’ll see ourselves out, sir,” he muttered, turning away. As he did so, he smacked the arm of his brother who was still watching Myra and Danse. “Come on, Riley!” he hissed. Reluctantly, the second knight followed him out.

Danse grimaced. There was little hope now that their relationship would remain secret. He cursed himself for his lack of control.

Myra, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling to suppress a laugh. She nearly doubled over, her face darkening as she cupped a hand over her mouth. Danse sighed.

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” he chided.

Bright peals of laughter exploded from her, all pretense thrown aside. “I...I’m sorry…” she wheezed. “I just...oh, God...I missed...you!”

Danse grinned in spite of himself. He’d missed that sound. This was better than any fantasy he’d had. “I...missed you too,” he said simply. After all, what else could he say? How could he put his desperation for her presence into words, or fully express the aching longing that had crippled him these past months? “It’s good to have you back.”

Myra’s wheezing laughter subsided, and eventually she was able to breathe normally again. Her grin, however, remained, bright and warm if tinged a little from an underlying fatigue. “You look like shit, Danse,” she assessed.

“So do you,” he muttered. It wasn’t a lie. Myra was thinner than he’d remembered, her skin almost paler than it had been. While she seemed in good spirits, the remnants of her near death still clearly hung over her. Perhaps it was just the effects of the interrogation, but she seemed frail. Small. “You should get some rest. You can use my quarters.”

Myra’s smile widened, and she poked him playfully in the chest with a slender finger. “You just want an excuse to take me back to your place, don’t you?” she teased.

Danse rolled his eyes. “I could make it an order,” he grumbled. It wasn’t like she was wrong. He did want to get her in private, and badly. But his concern for her well-being superceded any lascivious notions. Honestly, he just wanted to hold her, to hear her heartbeat, to know that she was really and truly safe.

“Well, yes sir!” Myra exclaimed, offering him an exaggerated salute. “Let’s go!”

She moved stiffly, he noticed, as if she was still nursing old bruises. Surely five months had been enough time to heal her injuries, unless they had been even more severe than Danse had realized. “Are you hurt?” he asked softly.

Myra shrugged. “Couple ferals got the drop on me up in Malden,” she replied. “It’s really nothing to worry about, Danse. I was sloppy. A few more days and I’ll be back to normal.”

Danse wanted to ask her what she was doing there in the first place, but he knew better. She’d tell him when she was ready. Besides, she was probably sick of answering such questions. Instead, he just wanted to take care of her.

As soon as the door latched behind them, Danse pulled her carefully close to him again, his lips gently searching hers. Myra moaned slightly, wrapping her slender arms around his neck and pulling him deeper into the kiss. For a long moment, neither of them moved. They just reveled in being together again.

Myra was the first to pull away, leaning back with a soft sigh. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that, T,” she murmured.

Danse tenderly brushed a strand of silvery hair out of her face, his heart pounding in his ears. “I believe I might be more aware than you think,” he murmured. The Paladin kissed her again, a little hungrier this time, determined to show her exactly how outstanding it was to have her home.

For her part, Myra seemed to melt into him, going so limp that he was afraid she might have passed out. He pulled back in concern, and she rested her head against his chest, settling into a looser embrace.  
“Perhaps I should get captured more often,” she murmured.

“Absolutely not!” Danse exclaimed. Even knowing she was probably joking, he didn’t want to take any chances. “I won’t...I can’t lose you, Myra.”

She chuckled weakly, nuzzling against his chest. “Fair enough,” she murmured.

Danse scooped her up carefully, carrying her over to his bed. Under normal circumstances, he’d offer her a change of clothes and a bath. He hated grime, especially in his sheets. But right now, none of that was important. All that mattered to him now was the chance to lie beside her, to hold her and know with absolute certainty that she was where she belonged again.

He lowered her carefully unto the mattress before sliding up behind her, keeping her safely tucked in his arms. Myra backed up against him with a contented hum, her cool body surprisingly comfortable against him. Danse smiled happily, planting a kiss on the back of her head.

The silence between them was warm and comforting, like a blanket carefully wrapped around a slumbering child. There was no need for words, not now. All they needed was each other, and the simple calm of being close. After a while, Danse was fairly certain that Myra had fallen asleep. Her heart rate slowed, and her breathing had relaxed to the point where he almost couldn’t feel her breath on his arm any more.

Thus, he was startled when she spoke to him. “Did I do the right thing, T?” she asked in a low murmur.

“When?” he asked simply, lazily caressing her upper arm.

“When I took the Oath,” she clarified. She rotated onto her back, looking over at him with a hint of anguish in her eyes. “I had a lot of time to think when I was in the Institute. And a lot of...hard decisions to make. And I know taking the Oath was the right call for me personally. For us. But…” she sighed.

Danse felt that familiar ache in his chest, a twinge of guilt and empathy that always seemed stronger when he was with her. “But you’re concerned that you acted purely out of your own self interest?” he asked softly, almost dreading the answer.

It wasn’t as if the thought had never occurred to him. After all, it didn’t take a master tactician to realize that Myra’s main goal in joining the Brotherhood of Steel had been staying by Danse’s side. He had done his best to overlook her reluctance, to justify how easy it had been to get her to turn her back on her principles and her friends. But he wasn’t stupid. Nor was he so blinded by desire for her as to completely not realize what she had given up.

Myra nodded. “I...when I was in the Institute the first time, I was overwhelmed by meeting my s...by meeting Father,” she replied. “I was shocked, horrified. I was feeling so many things so strongly that all I knew was that I wanted to get away from it. I wanted to be distracted. Hell, I wanted to burn the whole damn Commonwealth down just so I wouldn’t have to face it. And when I needed stability, needed purpose…” she sighed.

Danse’s stomach twisted. “Are you saying...do you wish we’d never…”

Myra shook her head. “No! No, I love you, Danse!” she exclaimed. “That’s not what I’m saying. If it was just a matter of you and me, I’d have made the same choice a thousand times.” She kissed him fervently, her fingers knotted in his hair. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

The Paladin nodded, lightly kissing the bridge of her nose. “Very well,” he replied. “So what has you so concerned?”

She was quiet for a long moment, her emerald eyes distant. Myra worried her lower lip between her teeth, clearly choosing her words carefully.

“When I was sent back to the Institute,” she said softly, “I realized that things were more complicated than I’d assumed. I thought they were all these horrible, amoral people focused on a single goal. But that wasn’t exactly the truth. I got to know some of them. And they’re...well, some of them are really shifty and misguided,” she proclaimed. “But they’re just people, doing what they can to survive. Just like all of us.”

Danse frowned. “So are raiders,” he argued. “And it’s still better to kill them.”

Myra nodded. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t destroy the Institute,” she retorted. “I’m just saying, some of the scientists there are good people. People we share common values with. But they’ve let their loyalties and their fears about the future stop them from acting on those principles. They can’t give themselves permission to do what is right because they are too scared to do something that might get them or the people they love harmed. So they work in the shadows, doing small acts that help, but never enough to make the changes they could be making.” Myra sighed. “It made me start to wonder if I’ve made the same call. Do I really want to be the sort of person who puts my happiness and safely above that of the people who rely on me? Isn’t that an evil in its own right?”

Danse couldn’t help but chuckle, kissing her cheek. “You’re a good woman,” he said. “You don’t have to be anything but that.”

She rested her head between his collarbones. “Do you know why I didn’t report in as soon as I got out?” she asked quietly.

Danse shook his head. “No one’s briefed me on that yet. You were near Malden, right?”

“Eventually.” Myra snuck a hand into Danse’s fatigue shirt, and he stifled a low groan as she softly stroked his chest. “I went to Starlight first. See, I’d made a promise to MacCready that I’d meet him there. A promise I forgot about after the first time I left the Institute.”

“You can hardly be blamed for that,” Danse protested. “You were injured.”

Myra nodded. “I know that. And you know that. But MacCready had no way of knowing that.”

The Paladin carefully unbuttoned his shirt to allow her better access to his chest. It seemed to be comforting her, and if he was honest with himself he rather enjoyed the sensation. “So was he still at Starlight?”

She frowned. “No. And according to several of the villagers, no one had seen him in months. I...I went to his house. He left me a note, telling me he’d left without me. So I went to _Med-Tek_, where we were supposed to meet up, and…” Myra’s eyes welled with tears, her breath hitching in her throat. “Danse...there was old blood and spent casings everywhere. I...I found Mac’s pack, torn. Stained with blood. He’s…he’s got to be...”

Danse wrapped his arms tighter around her, pulling her against him. “You can’t be certain he’s dead,” he whispered hoarsely. “Unless you found his remains.”

Myra whimpered, clinging to the front of his open shirt for dear life. “He...he needed me, Danse. I was off with you, happy and mostly carefree, and he probably died alone because I forgot about him!” Her tears were hot and wet against his skin, flowing openly and without signs of stopping.

The Paladin tried to think of anything he could do to help her, but there was nothing he could do. He felt helpless, useless, as she wept, able only to rub her back and leave small, comforting kisses in her hair. It was a horrible feeling.

“He...he was my friend, Danse! He was always...always there for me, and I…”

“You had no way of knowing,” Danse said. “And you were experiencing severe emotional distress. You are hardly to blame.”

Myra shook her head. “I should have...been there,” she sobbed. “I shouldn’t’ve forgotten. If I hadn’t just been...so fucking selfish!” She balled her fists still tighter in the fabric of his shirt, gasping between tears and self-beratement. “I...I failed him.”

Danse sighed. “Perhaps you did,” he conceded. “But there is no way to change what happened, Myra. All you can do is to take this lesson, as hard-learned as it is, and do your best to correct your behavior in the future.” 

He sat up carefully, pulling her into an upright position. Myra’s bloodshot eyes met his, and Danse carefully wiped the tears from them with the edge of his bedsheet. “As I said,” he continued, “You cannot be certain that MacCready is dead. All you found was his pack, correct?”

Myra nodded weakly. “Y-yeah.”

“Outstanding,” Danse replied. “So there is still a possibility of hope. And from what I know of your sniper friend, I would not write his obituary just yet.”

“If he is alive,” she sniffed, “I’m not sure he’ll forgive me.”

“That’s his prerogative,” the Paladin said, brushing a strand of tear-damped hair from her cheek. “You don’t have to concern yourself with his reactions. What you need to focus on are the actions you take from this point onward.” He watched her carefully. “So, tell me. What do you intend to do?”

Myra sighed. “I...I made a commitment to the Brotherhood. To you. I can’t just change my mind and go back to the way things were.”

Danse nodded. “Nor should you, as far as I’m concerned,” he replied. “The Brotherhood of Steel is the Commonwealth’s best hope. But you are truly exceptional when it comes to finding loopholes, Myra. As much as I hate to admit it, your...persuasive nature is sometimes a valuable and admirable skill set.”

Myra smiled weakly. “I’m still a lawyer,” she mused.

The Paladin returned her smile. “I’m still unclear as to how that differs from being a manipulator,” he muttered, “but surely you can use those skills to still aid your...other friends while still being loyal to the Brotherhood.”

“And you’d be all right with that?” she asked pointedly.

Danse groaned internally. It was a fair question. After all, he certainly didn’t want her palling around with Deacon any more. But MacCready? Preston? They were decent men. Danse respected them and what they were fighting for: family, stability, peace. Those were worthy goals.

“Well, as long as you didn’t do anything that strictly violated your Oath,” he allowed. “Like helping synths.”

Myra nodded, kissing his cheek. “Deacon made it pretty clear that the Railroad wants nothing to do with me. Don’t worry. My days of rescuing synths are over, Danse.”

He caught her lips with his own, murmuring in approval. It felt so good just to hold her, to be all wrapped up in her scent and her softness. No one had ever moved him the way Myra did, or rendered him so soothed with just a simple touch. Even after all these months apart, she felt like something he never thought he’d truly find outside of his duty: she felt like home.

“I love you, Myra,” he groaned as her hands explored his torso. His stomach jolted as they steadily circled lower.

“I love you too, T,” she replied, ragged and breathless. Her lips grazed his jawline as she softly kissed along it, her nose crinkling slightly as his scruff irritated it. She untied her green plaid bandana from around his neck, tossing it on his desk. “Thanks for keeping it safe,” she murmured, her teeth and tongue meandering across his neck, setting his body almost unbearably aflame. Her hands...her damned, blessed hands continued their journey towards his belt.

She was all he could sense, all his focus could take. He had never wanted another person more, or needed so badly to give himself over to a simple sensation. All he had to do was just let go, and...Danse’s resolve broke through the spell she was weaving, and he grabbed both her hands in his. “Myra. Before things go further, I--”

She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Don’t act like you don’t want this,” she panted breathlessly, her pale skin flushed with need. “I know you do. We both do.”

Danse nodded. “That’s hardly the issue. I just...are you sure this is the best time? You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally. You’ve just been through a massive ordeal. Maybe you’re not thinking clearly, and I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Myra rolled her eyes. “Danse, you’re a real gentleman. But damn it, sometimes you drive me absolutely nuts.”

“Trust me,” the Paladin retorted, “the feeling is decidedly mutual.” He kissed the top of her head affectionately. “I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”

“Tristan Danse,” Myra chided, “I chose you. No matter what happens, I chose this. Will I never regret it? Hell, you know I have plenty of regrets about what I did to get here. But loving you will never be one of them. So just shut up and let me love you, all right? Being with you is all I could think about while I was trapped, and like hell I’m going to waste time when we have it.”

Danse’s eyes widened. “I...very well then.”

* * *

As he lay amid his rumpled sheets, Myra’s soft skin tucked against his bare chest, Danse could never remember being so at peace. The dull thrum of the _Prydwen_’s machinery was a soothing lullaby, coaxing him to a well-earned rest. He gently stroked Myra’s arm as she cuddled into him, her face a study in serenity.

“Mmm...I...wow,” she murmured, kissing his chest. “That was worth the wait.”

Danse smiled warmly down at her. “I’m pleased to hear it,” he said softly. “I think I agree with your assessment.”

Myra sleepily batted at him. “It’s not battlefield tactics, Danse,” she protested weakly. “We don’t need a debrief.”

The Paladin sat up with a low groan. “Are you certain?” he asked. “If anything, we need more of a debrief about this particular engagement than any mission we’ve been assigned.”

Myra let out a grunt of protest. “It’s not time for that. It’s time for cuddling.”

Danse grinned. “We can do both. A good Brotherhood soldier knows how to multitask, Knight.”

She sighed, holding her hands up in surrender. “You’ve got me there. Well, then, what did you want to analyze to death?”

He took her arm in his hands, planting a soft kiss on her inner elbow. “You,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s so much...unknown terrain here to chart.” His lips continued up her arm, making their way across her collarbone. “I’ll need to make a full investigation.”

Myra snorted. “When did you become such a damned tease?” she joked. “I...ah! I would have thought you’d be too tired from being so earnest all the time.”

Danse sighed. He’d been meaning to do this eventually, but now that they’d been intimate, certain things that he thought could wait probably shouldn’t. “About my earnestness...Myra...I think we need to discuss where we go from here.”

She sat up next to him, concern in her eyes. “What do you mean? I thought things were pretty damn good. I mean, we just…”

“Yes, of course. I don’t ever wish to be parted from you again,” Danse continued, his heart in his throat. “And I hope that’s a sentiment you still share. I...I’m afraid I don’t have anything to give you, but I expect you’ll still know that I’m serious.”

Myra smiled weakly. “I’ve never known you not to be,” she mused. “But what are you going on about, Danse?”

“I was going to wait until after we destroyed the Institute,” he said softly. “But I don’t think I can wait any more. There is so much uncertainty in our lives. I may have gotten you back on this occasion, but…” the Paladin cleared his throat nervously. “Myra Isolde Larimer, will you...I mean...If you’re willing…”

Myra snorted. “Just spit it out, Danse.”

He sighed. This wasn’t going at all like how he’d planned. There was going to be a sunset, and Maxson was going to be there, and… “Myra…will you --”

The screech of the intercom interrupted him, and Danse groaned in frustration. “Damn it, what is it now?”

“_Senior Paladin Danse, report to the Airport at once!_” Kells announced. “_And bring Knight Larimer with you. There’s a civilian down there who says she’ll only speak to you two._”

Myra grimaced. “I’ll assume that whatever you were going to say can wait, right?”

Danse kissed her quickly, his fingers lingering in her snowy hair. “Affirmative,” he muttered. “But we do need to discuss this once our mission is over.”

She nodded, jumping up and zipping her flight suit back on. She stumbled half-dressed to the desk, hastily tying her bandana around her neck where it began. “Okay. I’ll look forward to it,” she replied nervously. “Damn, we probably don’t have time for a shower,” she muttered.

“Most likely not,” Danse replied. “But there’s a basin and a hot plate on my dresser if you need it.” The Paladin buttoned his fatigue shirt about halfway up before he thought better of it. They were heading into a mostly unknown situation. He’d better swing by the armor bay and get his power armor. Danse pulled off his shirt and began rummaging in his dresser for a clean flight suit. “I’ll leave first and meet you below. Don’t forget your guns.”

Myra offered him a clumsy thumbs-up. “You might want to run a cool cloth over your face first.”  
Danse took a quick peek in his mirror and groaned. His skin was flushed and vibrant, sweat beading around his hairline. He took the offered cloth, shuddering as the cold water touched his sensitive skin. It wasn’t much, but it’d have to do.

“Don’t take too long,” he ordered. “Whatever this woman wants...it can’t be good.”

Myra sighed. “Is it ever?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yep, I still can't quite bring myself to write explicit scenes. But hell, if the game can fade to black, so can I! Maybe someday...
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon and MacCready continue trying to solve the Watcher problem. A mysterious package arrives.


	4. The Unforgotten Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and MacCready, having stalled out in their research, return to Goodneighbor, where they encounter an unexpected messenger.

Deacon wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. He wasn't as adverse to dirty work as he liked to pretend, but there was something about sifting through the remains of people he knew that just got...tiring. The half-decayed bodies were just a small part of what he had to comb through, but it was by far his least favorite part.

Most Railroad operatives didn't know each other. That was an important part of compartmentalization, keeping the organization safe by minimizing the damage that any particular traitor could do. But in Deacon's case, while he wasn't aware of every agent, the number of people he could identify was comparatively huge. It was a lot of power, some would say. To Deacon, it just made massacres like this worse.

Kingsport had gotten off comparatively easily, having only lost two thirds of its population. That made this particular case unique. There weren't just bodies to tell their story. There were survivors. Maybe this time, they'd finally have some answers.

He felt eyes on his back and glanced up towards the lighthouse. His poor tail, a fairly new agent codenamed Python, watched him from the second story. Deacon waved to the man with a warm grin. "You wanna come down here and help, be my guest!" he chirped. "I won't tell Dez. Promise!"

The man's eyes widened and he slunk out of sight. Deacon wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or groan. "Where do we find these people?" he muttered. "Honestly, Dez should just let me tail myself."

The spy continued rooting through the remains and refuse that sat just outside the settlement gates, trying to find some clue as to what happened. As had been the case at other settlements, the dead were representatives of several factions. Minutemen settlers, Railroad agents, and even what looked like a Brotherhood field scribe lay in a partially-decayed heap, dumped by the survivors in an effort to keep disease at bay. Deacon was just grateful that it was no longer summer, or the stench would have been truly unbearable.

A flash of something metallic caught Deacon's eye, and he dug deep into the mound to retrieve it. He groaned with effort as he hauled a particularly hefty corpse out of the way. He really, really needed to start working out more.

Eventually, he retrieved the item. It was a simple, shiny black mask, the type that were frequently found at pre-war costume shops. Outside of steaks of gore, there were no distinguishing markings on it. Deacon wasn't sure what unnerved him about it. Raiders and settlers alike repurposed old bits of costumes all the time. So why did he feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he looked too closely at it?

"Oh...god...I think I'm gonna be sick!" MacCready exclaimed, startling the hell out of Deacon. He squeaked in surprise, dropping the damned mask.

"You can't just sneak up on a guy like that!" Deacon exclaimed, trying to hide his embarrassment. Super cool covert agents didn't squeak.

MacCready, mercifully, either hadn't heard him or chose not to make fun of him. "I called you like, three times," he muttered. "Not my fault you chose to zone out."

Deacon sighed. "Yeah, I was just...hang on. Where'd it go?" He searched the ground around his feet for the mask, but it was nowhere to be found. "Well, that's ominous," he murmured, trying to fight a growing sense of dread.

"Did you find anything?" the mercenary asked.

Deacon sighed. "I thought so. But looks like it was nothing. Did you wanna help look?"

"No thanks," MacCready replied hastily, turning a little green. "Why'd they just leave all these bodies here, anyway?"

"Well, trash pickup's not until the Thursday after never," Deacon quipped, tossing Mac a pair of rubber gloves. "Put these on and look around with me. It's not much, but it'll keep the corpse smell off your skin."

MacCready glared at him. "Hey, I already did my part by interviewing the poor bas...um, the people who live here," he complained. "I'm not doing your job too. You drew the short strip of radstag jerkey this morning, so it's your turn to wade in...ugh...corpse juice all by yourself today."

Deacon sighed. "That's what I can't stand about you, Mac. Your memory's too damn good."

The mercenary smirked. "No way I'm letting you manipulate me, Deacon. And don't forget that you're supposed to pay up. I bet you 100 caps this place would be worse than the last one, remember?"

Deacon groaned. "Yeah, yeah. You'll get your caps, pal. But first, did you find out anything?"

MacCready shook his head. "Nah, the survivors are still too freaked out to say much. I didn't learn anything we didn't already know. A flock of black birds attacked the place. Then everyone who survived ran inside and hid. No one saw anything else. A couple people said they heard laser weapons, but half the guys in this pile carried those thanks to a shipment from the Minutemen a few months ago."

Deacon kicked at a loose bit of metal, sending it flying into the brush nearby. "Well, great. We finally have witnesses, but none of them saw anything? Are you sure you asked everyone?"

The sniper sighed. "Everyone who was willing to talk, at least. Hell, I even bribed a few."

"What?" Deacon exclaimed with a grin. "You actually spent caps on this? How unlike you, MacGreedy!"

"Shut up!" Mac snarked back. "You know I hate it when you call me that." He frowned. "Look, it's been months, and we're no closer to understanding what's going on. Maybe I thought if we greased a few wheels, someone would spill something. But these people had the daylights scared out of 'em. What they want, we can't give them."

Deacon nodded. "They want security. The promise that we can keep them safe. And that's not a promise anyone can make right now, huh?"

"Yeah." Mac thought for a moment. "Has Preston's team found anything?"

"I've only heard that he's trying to get help from the Brotherhood," Deacon replied bitterly. "I can't blame him. Honestly, it seems like every couple weeks there's another massacre. Did you hear about Gunners Plaza?"

MacCready's eyes widened. "What? The Gunners got hit too?"

Deacon nodded. "Yep. Slaughtered to a man." He lowered his voice. "Black feathers all over the scene."

"So the Watchers were involved," Mac mused. "Well, you know I won't mourn those bas-those jerks, but it's worrying to know that even they aren't safe right now. We gotta get to the bottom of this, Deacon."

"With what evidence?" Deacon said with a sigh. "Sure, the Watchers are Institute tech, but this isn't the Institute's style. Something else must be at work, but we don't have a clue as to what. Tinker Tom couldn't make heads or tails of the data Tracey sent back, at least as far as he told me. All I know is that horrible little robot got taken apart after I dropped her off. Something about black goop in her circuits?"

"So now what?" MacCready asked. "We've got basically no leads. We don't even know who's gonna get hit next. The attacks aren't following any particular pattern."

Deacon shrugged. "Personally, I'd like a really hot bath. Maybe a few really hot baths."

MacCready smirked slightly. "You've got a point. Stay out here much longer and they might mistake you for a feral." He glanced around. "Kingsport doesn't have a bathhouse, do they?"

"Nearest one's at the Airport," Deacon replied. "But personally, I'd rather avoid the Brotherhood. I'm...not exactly on their VIP list. Feel like swinging through Goodneighbor?"

"If it means getting this...ugh...this stench out, absolutely!" the mercenary declared, clamping a rather filthy handkerchief over his nose. "It's a bit of a hike, though."

Deacon grinned. "I know a shortcut. Unrelated question: can you swim?"

MacCready's face paled. "Uhh..."

* * *

"Did you know the _Rexford_ has clean towels now?" Deacon called out from the bathroom. It had been a rough couple days of travel --overland, by Mac's insistence-- but that bath had been absolutely worth it. Sure, the water wasn't as rad-free as the stuff the Brotherhood carted in from the Capital Wasteland, but at least the _Rexford_ was discrete. More importantly, it wasn't a place so drenched in Myra that he couldn't think about anything else.

It had been months, but he still did his best to avoid places which reminded him of her. That was why he'd declined Mac's offer for a drink at _The Third Rail_ the night they'd gotten in. He needed to get Myra out of his system for good. Alive though she was, her ghost haunted him as if he'd actually shot her. Well, the bath had helped.

MacCready laughed from the hotel room. "That's what you're going to get excited about? The towels?"

Deacon emerged from the steamy room, a crisp, only slightly stained towel wrapped around his bald head. "Hey, I live in a graveyard, Mac. I'll take what I can get."

"I guess. I just...ahh!" The mercenary covered his eyes with a disgusted groan. "Damn it, Deacon, why are you naked?"

The spy shrugged. "Well, there were only two towels, and I thought you might want one so...you know, a thank you would be nice."

"Just...just put some pants on at least," Mac grumbled. "It's bad enough we have to share a room without you making things weird."

"If you really loved me, you wouldn't try to change me!" Deacon huffed jokingly. "Fine." He undid his stately towel turban and retied the fabric around his waist. "Am I less blindingly sexy now?"

"Sure. Yeah. We'll go with that." MacCready got up from the couch with a heavy sigh. "I hope you left me some hot water."

"I even stole you some soap!" Deacon replied. "You're welcome."

MacCready hastily retreated to the bathroom, and Deacon collapsed on the bed, snickering to himself. He almost felt bad, but Mac was just so much fun to mess with. And frankly, they both needed the distraction. The Commonwealth had really gone to hell over the past few months, and it seemed like the more they tried to fix it, the worse things got. It had always been a rough place, but...maybe it was the fact that there'd been hope for a little while that made everything so much worse. 

When Myra had begun to reunite the Minutemen, had helped the Railroad rebuild, it had seemed like maybe there was a chance for the people of the Commonwealth to stop hiding in fear and start living again. She had that gift of making everything seem like it was going to be okay, that the impossible was not only possible but completely obtainable. With her gone, there seemed like there was even less of a chance than there had been before. Things were broken. And frankly, Deacon couldn't see how they were ever going to get fixed.

Just what was Myra doing with the Brotherhood anyway? She should have at least been helping them take over the Commonwealth or something, but even the Brotherhood was struggling to keep their foothold. Even Witness hadn't seen her, which meant that she hadn't passed through the Cambridge Police Station since she and Danse had left the cabin. His note offering peace hadn't gotten to her. Had something happened to Myra? Was she dead?

Deacon's heart ached at the thought, in spite of himself. Even after everything, he couldn't bear the thought of her getting hurt. He'd run the whole gamut of emotions over the past few months, trying to work through his guilt, his frustration, his pain. But the one thing he couldn't seem to shake was that he missed her. He missed talking to her about mundane things, making her laugh when she got that deeply sad look in her eyes sometimes. He missed the way her nose crinkled when she lied, her peculiar habit of fiddling with the clasps of her armor when she was nervous. He missed those brief, half-mistaken touches when she'd brush against him, the scent of her homemade shampoo, the tiny limp she had when she first got moving in the morning. There were a thousand little things he longed to experience again, a thousand tiny doors that were barred to him now. But he couldn't let any of them go, even though he'd tried. In spite of everything, those treasures were precious.

He hoped that Danse was taking good care of her. If there was one thing he could say about the Paladin, it was that he was a gentleman in his own fascist way. Deacon knew Myra was arguably in good hands. And even if it wasn't what was best for the Commonwealth in general or for him in particular, he really did want her to be happy. He just hoped she was. Happy, safe...alive.

What concerned Deacon the most was MacCready. The mercenary wouldn't tell him the full extent of what hat happened at _Med-Tek Research_, but Deacon could tell by the haunted look in his eyes that it had been pretty awful. All these months later, in spite of his desperation to save Duncan, MacCready hadn't been able to work up the nerve to go back. Deacon would have come with him, of course. He tried to bring it up on several occasions. But the sniper always shot him down, a desperation in his voice that was truly worrying. Whatever had happened, it had hurt MacCready deeply in ways Deacon couldn't begin to fix.

He'd tried to talk Desdemona into helping retrieve the cure, but she'd shot him down too. Not that he'd expected anything else. He was in no position to ask for favors, especially for someone outside of the Railroad. It didn't matter that MacCready was basically a tourist now. Dez didn't trust him, and he was human, so he wasn't the Railroad's problem. Deacon's hands were tied. If he disobeyed Dez and tried to help Mac anyway, Deacon had been all but assured that Trailblazer would be forfeit. He couldn't do that to Talise. Even at such a cost.

MacCready hid his desperation well, for the most part. But as the months wore on, Deacon noticed that his friend withdrew a little more. He laughed just a little less enthusiastically. He drank just a little bit heavier. The bags under his eyes deepened with every passing day. Something had to give, and soon.

Deacon tensed as he heard a faint sniffling sound from the bathroom. MacCready was crying again. He seemed to always do that when he had a quiet spot to himself these days. Deacon wanted to go to him, wanted to help, but he knew that the sniper would only be embarrassed and ashamed if he intervened. Instead, he just tried to relax and let his mind clear. He needed to rest before they made their next push towards HQ, to Dez's accusing eyes and lectures about how Deacon must be hiding something because he hadn't solved the Watcher problem yet. Yep. He was just gonna take a nap.

Just as he was getting comfortable, MacCready tore into the room, his eyes red and swollen from crying. "Deacon, that soap sucked," he muttered. "It burned my eyes!"

Deacon shrugged, playing along. It was better this way. "Sorry, pal. I wasn't exactly doing comparison shopping when I swiped it." He put on the most convincing grin he could muster. "How about we go grab that drink like you wanted?"

MacCready lit up. "Sounds perfect. You're buying, right?"

Deacon nodded. "I always pay for my dates, buddy. You know that."

"Still not a date," MacCready protested, the haunted look in his eyes replaced by mild annoyance. Deacon's grin widened. Jackpot.

"Whatever you say," he replied. "For the record, I could do so much better anyway."

"Like hell you could!" MacCready protested, throwing his black duster on. "You know I'm a superhero, right? You should be so lucky!"

"I think that costume's gone to your head," the spy muttered, following suit and changing into a leather jacket. "I'm wayyy out of your league."

"Whatever makes you feel good about yourself, old man," the sniper said, smiling slightly. "Come on. We wanna get there before all the good tables are taken!"

"After you, Shroud," Deacon teased. "I'd hate to get between the Commonwealth's greatest hero and his drinking problem."

MacCready snorted. "Only problem I've got is with you, Deacon."

The spy shrugged. "Hey, I'm everyone's problem. So they tell me, at least."

"If it's between you and a Dirty Warhead, I'll take the booze any day," MacCready teased. "At least then I always know what I'm in for."

Deacon tried to come up with a good retort, but honestly, MacCready was pretty spot on. They were both in dangerous professions to begin with, and under the current conditions, it might actually take them longer to kill themselves with drink. The spy shrugged, following MacCready outside.

The fall air was cool and crisp, the smell of decay and old trash lessened somehow by the inescapable freshness of the season. The Commonwealth always seemed to be at its best this time of year. From old articles he'd read, apparently the region was known for autumn splendor before the War. Not that such things existed now. At least it wasn't so ungodly hot.

"Hey, MacCready!" Daisy's gruff but friendly voice rang out from her seat on one of the benches outside the bar, calling them over. "Er, I mean, the Silver Shroud! Heh heh. Still playing along with Kent's plan, I see."

"Maybe I just like the coat," Mac shot back with a soft smile. "How's my favorite ghoul today?"

"You know, selling supplies and trying not to get shot," Daisy replied. "More of the latter these days, but what can you do? Goodneighbor's not as...neighborly as it used to be."

Deacon grimaced, conscious of the nasty scar above his eye. Hancock had done a fairly decent job with his stitches, but the wound had still healed ragged. Deacon chalked it up to waggling his eyebrows too much. "So we've noticed," he chimed in.

"Ah! You're the guy that got his ass kicked during the riot a while back!" the ghoul said, her eyes wide. "You know not all of us ghouls agreed with that lunatic, right?"

The spy nodded. "Fear's one of the hardest things to control. Once it infects a population..." he trailed off for a moment, ghosts of his angry, self-righteous path dancing across his memory. He cleared his throat, shooting Daisy a winning smile. "The only way things get better is if we make 'em better. That's why McCranky and I are here."

MacCready kicked him a little harder than was necessary, in Deacon's opinion.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Daisy said. "Town sure could use a reason to unite, and if you two playing dress-up is what gets us there, it's not the worst thing you could be doing." She eyes Deacon carefully. "Speaking of, I understand who MacCready's supposed to be. But what are you dressed up as?"

Deacon grinned, doing a slow twirl for her. "Isn't it obvious, dear girlish ghoul? It is I, the Mistress of Mystery!"

MacCready groaned. "He's just staying with me for a few days. That's all," he added pointedly.

"Aw, well, that's not fair," Deacon pouted. "You get to have all the fun! I want a cool alias too!"

The mercenary shot him a withering look, and Deacon barely managed to hold in his laughter. MacCready was a good soul, but he really was far too much fun to mess with.

Daisy had no such compunctions, and openly snickered at their banter. "Things really haven't been the same here without you, MacCready. You ought to come home more often."

"You and I both know this isn't home for me," MacCready replied softly. "Goodneighbor's not a bad place to set up shop, but..."

She nodded. "Well, you'll always have a place here as long as I'm around. You can count on that." The ghoul turned to Deacon. "You keep him alive, you hear me?"

Deacon nodded sincerely. "That's the plan!" He brushed a bit of dust from MacCready's shoulder. "Come on, pal. You mentioned one of those horrible cocktails you like?"

The sniper grinned. "A Dirty Warhead! Have you ever had one?"

"The drink?" Deacon said, pretending to think. "No. But did I ever tell you about the time I got kicked out of Megaton? To be fair, there wasn't a law against..." He trailed off, the sound of bickering at the gate catching his attention. "Drinks'll have to wait, Mac. We'd better check that out." The spy crept around the corner towards the plaza, his hunting rifle at the ready.

MacCready groaned in annoyance, falling in behind him. "Why is every little fight our problem?"

Deacon shushed him. "You're the one who decided to be a superhero," he hissed. "Now be quiet and let me concentrate!"

The guard on watch currently was a lean ghoul with a crooked jaw that Deacon was pretty sure was named Gerbil. Or something like that. He was pointing the business end of a tommy gun between the slats of the gate, a wild look in his black eyes.

"You ain't gettin' in here!" the guard yelled. "I don't care who you think you are!"

"Stand aside, freak!" Snarled a muffled voice from the other side of the barricade. "I have orders to enter Goodneighbor, and I fully intend to follow them."

The spy groaned. Condescension towards non-humans. Entitled tone. Damn it, it had to be the Brotherhood of Steel. He glanced back at MacCready. "I don't know about you," he whispered, "but I think we should probably...definitely intervene."

MacCready nodded, already climbing Daisy's stairs to get a better vantage point. "Come on, Daisy," he pleaded. "Head to the back room in case there's trouble."

Deacon casually strode up to the gate. He tapped the guard on the shoulder. "Hey, I got this."

"Who in the hell do you..." the guard started, before ending with an annoyed sigh. "You know what? Go right ahead. You wanna deal with this asshole, it's no skin off my back."

Deacon smiled. Noting quite beat the laziness of Goodneighbor's guards. The spy cleared his throat, lowering the pitch of his voice to what he hoped sounded intimidating. "What's your name and rank, soldier?"

"Knight Rob Farrow," the soldier outside replied reflexively. 

Deacon smiled. Brotherhood. They really weren't the brightest bunch. All it took was an air of authority and they fell in line. "What do you want, Knight?" he asked.

"Not that it's any of your business," the man outside said gruffly, "but I have a package to deliver to someone named Daisy."

Deacon glanced back at Daisy's shop, where the ghoul and MacCready looked on apprehensively. "Well, pal, that's not gonna happen. Goodneighbor's closed for business. We got a terrible...infestation. Of metal-eating beetles."

There was a pause from beyond the barricade. "What?" the knight asked, clearly incredulous.

"Yeah!" Deacon continued. "We never saw 'em coming. Not until they'd already eaten half a rail car. You should see the size of these bastards."

"I'm...not certain that's a real thing," the soldier said. "We've never encountered anything like that."

"Welcome to the Commonwealth, Knight," Deacon replied. "What, you thought the Capital Wasteland had a monopoly on horrible creatures? You guys got centaurs, sure. But we got this crap. You still wanna come in, I won't stop you. But you might want to leave that fancy armor outside."

A longer pause, punctuated by a groan of frustration. "Screw that!" the Knight said coldly. "Larimer said this would be an easy trip. Just in and out. She never told me there'd be giant metal-eating beetles."

Deacon's heart raced at the mention of Myra. So she was alive. Alive and sending packages to Goodneighbor? Well, he hadn't expected that. "Sounds like a real piece of work."

"Tell me about it," the Knight grumbled. "We're the same rank, and she thinks she can order me around just cause Elder Maxson cuts her a ridiculous amount of slack? How Paladin Danse puts up with her is beyond me."

"You know what would really show her?" Deacon suggested. "Just leave that package with a random stranger. Sounds like it shouldn't be your problem anyway."

"If I leave the package with you, can I trust you to deliver it?" Farrow asked.

Deacon grinned. "Do you really care at this point?"

The Knight sighed. "Yeah. I really don't. Knight Larimer can kiss my ass." He cleared his throat. "So, you want me to give this to you?"

"Just pass it through the door when I open it," the spy replied. "No funny business."

He slowly unlatched the door bar and opened the gate just enough to allow the package through. He held out a hand, and Farrow roughly shoved a mass of canvas into it.

"Good enough," the Knight muttered.

Deacon pulled the delivery through, quickly relatching the gate. "Like taking candy from an asshole," he said with a laugh. "Now what have you sent us, Whisper?"

The object in question was a green canvas pack, torn and covered in bloodstains, but still very recognizable. He turned it over in his hands, his fingers tracing the initials awkwardly embroidered on the strap. RJM. 

"Um...Mac?" he called. "You might want to see this."

"Hey! That's my pack!" the mercenary cried, running over to him. "But where...? I...I lost it in _Med-Tek_! How'd it get into Brotherhood hands? And, more importantly, why would they send it here?"

"Myra sent it," Deacon said softly, almost not believing what he was saying.

MacCready grabbed the bag from his loose grip, tearing it open. "There's my spare ammo...supplies...even...hang on." He pulled a red cylinder from the bag, looking at it with wide eyes. It was a little bigger than his palm, something written on the side in white that Deacon couldn't quite make out. "It can't be," MacCready whispered almost reverently.

"What is it?" Deacon asked.

"I think it's the cure," MacCready said shakily, his eyes misting over. "Deacon, I think Myra found it. That's why she sent this here. I told her that Daisy had the best caravans east, and..." he trailed off, clutching the cure tightly but carefully.

Deacon watched him, his heart swelling with pride. "Whisp," he murmured. "Are you still you after all?"

"There's a note," MacCready continued, his hands shaking as he handed it to Deacon. "Y-you read it. I'm having trouble seeing straight."

Deacon cleared his throat:

_"Hey, Duncan,  
  
_ _You don't know me, but I was a friend of your dad's. I hate to tell you this, but I'm afraid something happened to him. I'm so, so sorry. _

_Please remember that he loved you very much. He really, really wanted to get this cure home to you. And even though he might not be there to watch you get better, I know he'll be proud of you and all the things you'll do in your life. Please forgive him for not being there. And please forgive me for not being able to keep him safe._

_I wanted to make sure you got his pack. It's not much, but I hope you'll treasure it. I know it's tough losing your family. If there's ever anything I can do for you, please contact me. I owe your dad more than I can possibly repay. He was a good man. I'll miss him very much._

_-Myra Larimer"_

The spy stared at the note in disbelief. So Myra thought MacCready was dead? Was that why she got the cure, because she felt guilty? Or was her regret part of something larger, and it had been her plan to make the meeting as soon as she could? Deacon wasn't sure what to believe. He wanted to trust that Myra hadn't changed when she betrayed the Railroad and the Minutemen, that she was still on their...on his side, in spite of how she'd treated him. That it had all been terrible circumstances and a string of horrible events that had caused her to behave so selfishly.

But her actions still didn't make up for her earlier behavior. Myra might not have gone all the way to the synth-murdering side, but that did not make her an ally. She might still care about her friends, but that did not make her benign. And while Deacon still had hope that she would come around, he wasn't going to hold his breath. As long as she had Danse, the Brotherhood of Steel would have her. This much could not have been clearer to him.

MacCready, on the other hand, seemed a little more forgiving. He stumbled, still stunned, towards Daisy, holding out the cure. "Daisy! We got it! The cure for Duncan!"

"Oh my god!" the ghoul crooned. "That's wonderful news! Who knew the Brotherhood still had a heart? Hand it over. I'll get it to him as soon as possible. I promise."

MacCready handed the cylinder over, his hands shaking so hard that Deacon was worried he'd drop the thing. "Thanks, Daisy."

"You've saved my life more than once," she said with a shrug. "It's the least I can do."

The sniper waved Deacon over. "Come on! Drinks are on me after all! This just became a celebration!"

Deacon's eyes panned over the note in his hands one more time. Huh. That was odd. A second page? He hadn't noticed that before. It was a yellowed piece of paper, letterhead mostly faded but still legible. _The Waterfront Tavern, Revere_. A bar. Scribbled on the paper in Myra's even hand was a few numbers and letters. 

_P3: 29, 46, 65_

He grabbed the first page again, counting the words in the third paragraph. "Watch...in...safe," he mumbled under his breath, his pulse quickening. He couldn't help but laugh. "Damn it, Myra!" He muttered. "Who taught you how to spy?" He was almost proud.

"What's the hold-up?" MacCready exclaimed. "Let's go!"

"I'm right behind you!" Deacon replied, shoving the note in his back pocket. This was turning into a better day already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, Myra might not have entirely stopped helping the Railroad. At the very least, she seems like she's wrapping up her unfinished business. Should Deacon hold out hope, or is it some sort of trap? Only time will tell.  
If the bar sounds familiar, it's where Myra used to work, where she met Nate. Thought it'd be fun to throw it in as a place she'd cache things.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Myra and Danse receive troubling news. A good lawyer's instincts never truly fade.


	5. The Good Cop's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myra and Danse struggle with differences in worldview. A good lawyer's instincts never truly fade.
> 
> ** Trigger Warning: Gore and Such. Read at your own risk. **

A haze hung around the ruins of the Boston airport, obscuring the fortifications and ruined buildings in an almost eerie way. It was strange to see such a fog in the afternoons. Typically, it thickened overnight before melting away under the heat of the sun. But the sun did not burn brightly today. Danse suspected that if he weren't in his power armor, he might even feel chills. He turned to Myra, studying her carefully. Was she cold? Was there anything he could do to help her?

She seemed to feel his gaze on her, her striking emerald eyes meeting his with a hundred unspoken questions in them. Danse felt his gut clench. Myra was nervous, and that was never a good sign.

To be fair, there was plenty to be nervous about. Here they were, heading into a meeting with an unknown quantity. Anyone brave enough to wander into the Brotherhood of Steel's main outpost in the Commonwealth and demand to speak to specific soldiers was either incredibly dangerous, incredibly desperate, or incredibly stupid. Any of those underlying factors could be a significant problem.

But maybe there was another reason Myra was nervous. Before, when they had...neither of them had really been prepared for things to go that far, right? Danse certainly hadn't been. Not that he regretted it. He had never anticipated how magnificent it would feel to be so completely with another person. There was a stunning vulnerability to intimacy that had always frightened him even as it intrigued him. To truly belong to another, one had to give all of themselves over to that person. It wasn't easy, revealing all the bad along with the good. And in Danse's mind, at least, that was what they'd accomplished.

He knew that not every...intimate encounter between two people was like that. He wasn't that naive. There was a place for brutal, animalistic copulation, he supposed. But such an undertaking had never appealed to him. There were far more important considerations than just feeling good, and if that was all their union had meant, he had a distinct feeling that it would not have proven to be as rewarding of an experience.

Still, he didn't know Myra's mind on the matter. She'd been married, of course. Had a child. Supposedly, that meant that she'd experienced all this before. He couldn't help but wonder if it meant the same to her as it did to him. Danse tried to tell himself that none of that mattered, but...had she been with anyone before Nate? How did her time with Danse compare? Did she feel the same way he did about things, or did she regret being with him? There were so many unspoken concerns that gnawed at the paladin, concerns that could only be alleviated by taking the next logical step.

Danse had to ask Myra to marry him. He was a man of honor, after all. And more than that, he loved her with such a deep ardor that anything less would be a slight to their bond. He had to make certain that Myra understood the intention behind his actions, that she could trust absolutely that he was never going to leave her. For all his hope that the uncertainty in her eyes was about their meeting, he couldn't fully trust that there wasn't some doubt about the sincerity of his intentions comingling with her other concerns. They needed to finish that conversation. And soon.

"How long do I have to wait here?" A gentle but firm feminine voice caught his attention, and Danse's eyes widened as three figures seemed to emerge from the fog. Two knights in full helmets flanked a slight young woman, her features both familiar and strange to him. It wasn't until Myra rushed forward, bolting past him, that he knew for sure who he was looking at.

"Jenny!" Myra cried, throwing her arms around the synth.

Danse stomped after her, less than enthused about seeing the synth again. Especially on Brotherhood ground.

Jenny, for its part, looked radically different than it had at Peregrine. For one thing, its mask was gone, replaced with a pair of eyeglasses that framed its curious grey eyes. It was also wearing a Red Rocket t-shirt that hung loosely on its slight frame, its legs bound with simple leather armor. If Danse hadn't known who...what it was, it would have been easy to mistake it for one of Myra's settlers. He supposed that was the point, but all the same, its ability to go unnoticed made him severely uncomfortable. That was the true insidious nature of synths. In spite of his begrudging tolerance of Peregrine, a pretense Danse maintained since they had spared his life, the paladin was still very suspicious of their kind, particularly their motives. Was Jenny really here to see them, or had it come to case the Airport and report their true strength to its masters? Perhaps it was rigged to explode. The possibilities were endless.

Even Myra, synth sympathizer that she was, seemed suspicious. "What are you doing here?" she whispered intensely. "You know where you are, right?"

The synth nodded. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't urgent."

Danse eyed it suspiciously. It seemed sincere, but what if that was a trick? One thing was certain: the more distance he could put between it and the terminal, the better. He nodded to the knights who had been holding it. "We'll take it from here," he commanded.

"Sir!" they said as one, saluting him.

Myra smiled gratefully up at him before taking Jenny by the arm. "Come on. Let's find a quiet place to talk." She led them away from the terminal towards the warehouses that surrounded the airport. The three of them walked almost to the edge of the water before Myra stopped, pulling open a disused, half-caved in warehouse. "This should do," she murmured. "Now keep your voice down and tell us what the hell you're doing here."

Danse offered Myra a nod of approval. Remote, but near enough to reinforcements. It would be a discrete enough place.

Jenny watched them both carefully. "Honestly, you two are the only outsiders I know, and..." she sighed. "I suppose I was hoping you'd help."

Danse frowned. "Your...group imprisoned us. What makes you think we want anything further to do with you?"

"I know we didn't meet on the best of terms, sir," Jenny pleaded. "But you should know by now that Peregrine doesn't mean you any harm. And I owe Myra my life. I would never hurt her!"

"Just tell us what's wrong," Myra said gently. "I promise I'll help if I can."

"It's Dr. Li," Jenny murmured. "She's gone missing. There was...an attack on one of our patrols."

"What was Madison doing on patrol?" Danse asked, his eyes narrowing. "That doesn't make any sense. She's a scientist, not a soldier."

Jenny bristled slightly. "She was looking for some very specific parts," it explained grumpily. "And we're not idiots. The team she was with was very heavily armed."

"No one's accusing you of putting her in danger," Myra soothed, shooting Danse a glare. The paladin sighed, doing his best to temper his natural distrust and give it a fair shot of explaining itself.

"What exactly happened?" Danse inquired, trying to sound...gentler. None of this felt right. Why would Madison put herself at risk? Surely none of her projects could be that important.

"We don't know. The patrol...everyone else was killed." Jenny's eyes welled up with tears. "That's why I need your help. We have to find her. Peregrine...all of us need her. Dr. Li is the best chance we have to fix things before..." she trailed off, her eyes distant. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt," she murmured.

Myra threw an arm around Jenny's shoulder, pulling her against her side. "Hey. It's okay. We'll do what we can to help you."

Danse cleared his throat. "We can't promise anything of the sort, Larimer," he corrected. "Unless you've forgotten, we aren't free agents. We're soldiers, and our primary duty is to --"

"To the Brotherhood," Myra interjected testily. "Yes, I haven't forgotten, Danse. But In case you've forgotten, Dr. Li is a Brotherhood asset. I think that Elder Maxson would understand if we went after her."

"Not without asking permission," the paladin cautioned. "We need to brief the Elder on what we know. After we deal with the loose ends."

"But..." Myra sighed. "You're right, Danse. Let's go talk to him. Just...if we can leave Jenny out of this..."

"That would be inadvisable," the paladin said, shaking his head.

Myra frowned. "She's a friend, Danse. Jenny helped keep me alive, remember?"

"So did the scientists in the Institute," Danse retorted. "And yet you still intend to destroy them, correct? Unless you're having second thoughts about that too."

"No!" she cried. "Of course not! we both know the Institute has to pay for their crimes. But who has Jenny ever hurt? We can't just...you can't seriously be suggesting that we..."

Danse huffed in frustration. "It's still a synth," he stated with as little emotion as he could, loosing his laser rifle from its holster. "Like it or not, we have a duty to defend the Airport, Larimer. Jenny is a security risk."

Jenny gasped. "I thought we were past this!" she protested. "I told you, I don't want to hurt anyone!"

Myra pulled the synth behind her. "We are past this, Jenny." She glared at Danse. "She's not a threat."

"All synths are threats," Danse replied. "Especially now that it's seen our defenses. Who knows what Brotherhood secrets it knows now? It would be extraordinarily irresponsible for us to let it leave. We simply can't take that risk!"

"Jenny's a friend!" Myra retorted. "She hasn't hurt anyone! You can't just kill an innocent woman!"

"It's a machine, not a woman," Danse reiterated calmly, though his mind was anything but. He knew what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to do. But somehow, it felt like someone else was speaking through him. "Stand aside," he ordered.

"No," Myra hissed, fear and pain in her eyes. "You'll have to kill me first."

"You promised me that you were through rescuing synths," the paladin pleaded. "Myra, I don't wish to hurt you. Please, just let me do my duty." His heart pounded wildly, and he could feel sweat beginning to form at his hairline. Didn't Myra understand the real danger they were in? The life of a single synth was not worth endangering hundreds of human lives. If Jenny, willing or unwilling, revealed her memories of this encounter to a force that meant them harm, she could singlehandedly bring about massive devastation. No matter what they owed the synth, the risk was too great.

"I promise, I'm not here to hurt anyone!" Jenny begged. "I came to you for help! You can't...you can't..."

Danse's hands trembled, and he struggled to regain control. No. He had to protect the Brotherhood, protect Arthur as he always had. He had never hesitated when it came to doing his duty. Not even when he'd had to kill his best friend. Cutler was worth far more to him than this synth. So why was he hesitating now? "I'm sorry," he growled. "I don't have a choice."

"There is always a choice, T," Myra said sternly. She reached for her sidearm, her pistol aimed at his head before he could process what was happening. "I love you. That's why I can't let you do this. I won't let you degrade yourself further. You're a good man, not a murderer."

For a long moment, the two of them stared at each other down the sights of their weapons. Danse's heart was in agony, watching the hurt and anger in Myra's eyes. She wouldn't really pull the trigger, would she? Surely, she understood that he was just doing his job. While he didn't share her convictions, he respected them, and certainly hoped that she respected his. "If...if you can't be here for this, I understand," he stated coldly. "But you cannot stop me from protecting the Brotherhood."

Myra shook her head. "Danse...is this really who you want to be?"

He gulped painfully, a lump in his throat. The tremors were worse now, and that aggravated him. When had he become so weak? "I...I have to," he reiterated. "Too many lives are at stake."

Myra grimaced. "I...I understand," she said softly. "I hate it, but I understand."

Jenny's eyes widened. "Myra, you're not going to let him kill me, are you? I...I don't want to die."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her green eyes welling with tears. She slowly lowered her pistol.

Before Danse could move, Jenny shoved Myra off-balance, yanking the laser rifle from her back. "I want to live!" it...no, _she_ screamed, running for the warehouse door.

Danse cried out in shock as the bullet ripped through flesh and bone, the silenced shot leaving an abstract painting of misery and viscera on the shack wall. Jenny's body crumpled, her head all but destroyed.

Myra sank with her, clutching the ruined body to her chest. An agonizing, haunted howl tore from her lips, a sound of pure regret and grief the likes of which Danse had never heard. She rocked Jenny's body, whispering a thousand apologies over the corpse...no, the destroyed machine. No. The corpse.

In spite of himself, Danse could not see anything but a dead body. The blood, the grey matter, the bits of bone...they were the same as those he'd seen before in battle. If the only thing that was different about synths was a single chip that controlled them... he knelt beside Myra, digging carefully through the gore for the synth component. He held up a small, warped piece of metal and circuitry, smaller than his index finger. The device had been battered in the blast, oozing a faint black sludge from several of its wires, but it was small enough that it had escaped mostly undamaged. Danse studied it, his mind tracking a thousand thoughts. This was it. This was all that made a generation 3 synth a synth. The rest was meat and bone and blood, the same components that made up everyone he knew. He felt sick.

"Myra, I..."

She looked up at him, her eyes hollow. "I...couldn't let her hurt you," she murmured. "I...couldn't let you hurt her. Neither of you should carry the weight of it. I...I chose this."

Danse pulled her close, her body limp in his arms. "I...don't know what to say," he stammered. "I don't know how to fix this."

Myra snorted. "You can't," she replied softly. "There's...nothing to say. Just..." she pushed herself away from him, scooting backwards towards the door. She staggered to her feet, her face expressionless. "I need to wash my hands before we see Maxson," she said mechanically. "I...I have to get clean."

She stumbled out of the shed, dashing towards the bay. Danse let her go. It was all he could do.

* * *

They barely spoke a word to each other on the flight from the Airport to the _Prydwen_.

Danse glanced over at Myra as she sat on the bench in the vertibird. She seemed...smaller. She kept rubbing at her hands, as if still trying to scrub them clean. His heart ached for her, but there was nothing he could do. He knew what she was feeling all too well. Only time would lessen the pain.

He thought of his own actions that afternoon, of how he'd hesitated. Danse should have pulled the trigger without hesitation. Before, he certainly would have. But something had changed in him, some nagging feeling that held him back. Was Myra right all along? The fear he'd seen in Jenny was real fear. How could that be manufactured? Were the Institute scientists really able to mimic emotions that strongly?

It made him wonder about other emotions. Could the synths of Peregrine truly care for the children they were fostering? Could they actually feel love? No. No, that was impossible. It had to be. Love was the most strictly human emotion there was. It required empathy, self-sacrifice...such things would never exist in a programmed mind. How could they? Machines were all designed to value their self-preservation. They couldn't love. They couldn't sacrifice. They could not be heroes.

No, what they had witnessed could not have been real. So why did it bother him so? Why had he, for just a fraction too long, seen Jenny as an innocent woman, not a synthetic abomination?

Danse rubbed his eyes. He probably just needed to get some real sleep. These damned headaches had robbed him of too much rest.

The jolt of the docking clamps pulled him back to the present, and he followed Myra out of the vessel and onto the flight deck. She stormed forward, up the stairs and directly towards the command deck. Danse winced. He knew she was eager to save Madison, but she was behaving rashly again.

Myra snarled in frustration as she found the deck empty, immediately pivoting and heading for the ladder to the living quarters. Danse caught her around the shoulders.

"Easy M-Larimer," he grumbled. "Take a deep breath."

Myra glared at him, her eyes wild. "We have to get a plan together, Danse. Dr. Li is in trouble. We have to find her, and get her to safety, and --"

Danse cupped her chin in his hand, startling her out of her growing frenzy. "Affirmative. But first, breathe."

She drew in a shallow, ragged breath. "I...I just need to keep moving," she snapped. "If I sit still, I'll --"

The paladin sighed, looking about the gangway. Miraculously, no one seemed to be around. He pulled her close, kissing her deeply. "Myra," he whispered, "You are fine. You are merely experiencing shock."

She nodded, her breathing slowly improving. After a few moments, she pulled away, heading for the ladder again. "I...I need to use this. Channel it into something helpful. Something good. I can deal with it after the mission."

Danse frowned. "I've seen many soldiers try to handle traumatic experiences in that way. Just...don't be rash."

Myra laughed bitterly. "Rash? Me?" She clambered up through the hatch.

He groaned, following her. "That is exactly why I'm concerned."

She pounded on Maxson's door, a little too forcefully for Danse's liking. "Elder Maxson! Are you there? It's urgent."

There was a thumping and the sound of mild cursing before the door swung open a crack and a very bleary-eyed Maxson peeked out. "Yes?" he grumbled.

"I'm sorry if we disturbed your sleep, sir," Danse apologized quickly.

Maxson rubbed his eyes. "I wasn't resting, Danse," he grumbled. "It's mid-afternoon. I was just...finishing up some reports." The door opened, revealing his rumpled flight suit. "Please, come in."

Myra didn't hesitate, following the Elder into his room with deliberate grace. Danse groaned internally, bringing up the rear. It had been a long time since he'd seen Maxson so tired. That could only mean that operations were going poorly. And a tired, frustrated Arthur was far less likely to be lenient.

Shockingly, Maxson didn't reprimand them. Instead, he dampened a cloth with water from his washbasin, wiping his face with a soft sigh of contentment. "Ah. That's better." He looked Myra over, his lips upturning ever so slightly. "Of course it's you two. Less than a day out from your debrief and already needing a favor, Larimer?"

Myra chuckled. "You know me, sir. I...Oh!" She rummaged in her pack for a moment before producing a notebook. "Your stories," she said, offering it back to him. "I almost forgot!"

Arthur took the notebook, carefully hiding it under a stack of documents on his desk. "What did you think, Knight?" he asked, a tiny hint of a nervous flicker in his eyes.

Danse smiled slightly at the sight. He hadn't seen that look in almost a decade. Not since Heather had left.

Myra thought for a moment. "They're pretty good! I mean, you got some of the facts wrong, but..."

"What?" Maxson frowned. "Are you serious? I did my research!"

She nodded. "I'm sure you did the best with the books that survived, but...I hate to break it to you, but raccoons were too small to ride. I saw loads of them rooting through my trash, and they were only a little bigger than Quinlan's cat."

"Really? You saw one in real life?" Maxson's excitement was palpable. "You must tell me more. I..." he cleared his throat, his stoic demeanor returning. "I'm certain you didn't come here to discuss pre-War wildlife, Knight. What did you need?"

Danse cut in. "We recently gained some intelligence on the last known whereabouts of Dr. Madison Li," he said. "We would like to request permission to look for her."

"There's no need," Maxson replied with a curt nod. "Dr. Li is already in our custody."

Myra bristled. "So we're the ones who attacked the patrol?" she asked.

The Elder eyed her curiously. "Patrol? No, we found Dr. Li in the custody of several heavily-armed synths. She's quite fortunate we liberated her."

Danse sighed. Of course it had been the Brotherhood. So Li was already safe, and Jenny had died for nothing. He looked to Myra, saw the torment in her eyes. Damn it. "Where is she being held?" he asked.

Maxson cocked his head slightly. "Why do you need to know, Danse?"

Myra cleared her throat. "We would like to be involved in her debrief. After all, I'm the one who got her away from the Institute. I deserve to be there."

"Deserve?" Maxson sighed. "Larimer, you deserve a few days of bed rest. You just got off of your own debrief." He shook his head. "I swear, you and Danse are more like each other every day. Did you know he raised the same sort of objections when you were being held?"

Myra's eyes widened, and she turned to Danse. "You wanted to participate? In the shit they put me through?"

He nodded. "I wanted to make sure you were healthy and safe," he said. "I wasn't certain what condition you'd be in after almost half a year in the Institute."

She relaxed slightly, her eyes softening. "Of course." She turned to Maxson. "Would you please allow me to observe? I won't interfere."

The Elder shook his head. "No. It is better for everyone if you stay out of this, Larimer."

"And if I don't?"

Maxson rounded on her, cold fury bubbling to the surface. "You can't just choose which orders to follow any more, Larimer," he growled. "You took an Oath. And I told you to stay out of this."

Myra shook her head, her emerald eyes focused and fierce. "You never said I couldn't question your methods. Or your motives. I'm well within my rights to do both. Now, tell me, Elder, is she being tortured? Or was the withholding of food and water and rest just a special present for me?"

Danse was shocked. He'd been assured that Myra was treated humanely. "Arthur, you swore she was treated well!"

The Elder shook his head. "That's an unfair accusation! We had to ensure that you were human! You were with the Institute for--"

"I was there far less than Dr. Li was!" Myra hissed. "So tell me. Is she or is she not being tortured? I think I have a right to see if she is being treated humanely."

Maxson sighed. "I am not accustomed to being questioned by my own subordinates," he grumbled. "If you must know, Dr. Li is being confined to quarters for hitting Proctor Ingram. That is all."

"She...hit Ingram?" Danse asked.

"Apparently she wasn't overly fond of being asked to help work on _Liberty Prime_," Maxson grumbled.

"And that's why you should have just taken me to her first," Myra sighed. "I might not be good at much, but I'm an excellent lawyer. And bartender, but I doubt making her a whiskey sour would help." She smirked at Maxson. "Why didn't you just confine us together? If I tried to kill her, then I was obviously an Institute plant. Otherwise, I could have talked her down. Two birds, Elder. One big-ass stone."

Arthur had the presence of mind to look cowed. "I...should have considered that. Very clever, Knight."

"Clever enough to get to see her?" Myra asked innocently.

Danse watched her with a renewed sense of awe and worry. When she put her mind to it, Myra was terrifying. No one dared to challenge Arthur like this. Not even his few friends.

"Very well," Maxson relented. "If I show you that she is being well cared for, will you let this go?"

"Let what go?" Myra prodded. "What you let Quinlan do to me, or what you're planning to force her to do?"

"You know as well as I do that no one forces Dr. Li to do anything," the Elder continued. "I'm hoping to persuade her to work with us."

Myra snorted. "Right. Because diplomacy is such a strong suit of yours."

"Do not presume too much on my kindness," Maxson growled. "I am still your Elder. One of these days, you may go too far, Larimer. Don't test my patience."

She held up her hands in surrender. "My apologies, sir," she amended. "Of course, I meant no disrespect."

Danse sighed heavily. Myra was always one step from disaster. Truly, if it had been anyone else, Arthur would have punished her long ago. He wasn't sure what made the Elder hesitate when it came to her. Was it respect? Admiration? Something more? He tried not to think about the latter possibility.

"You never do," Maxson grumbled, pulling his battle coat on over his flight suit. "Follow me. And do try not to be insubordinate in front of your brothers and sisters."

The trio walked below decks to the remaining private quarters. Most of them belonged to the Proctors, with a few lying dormant for higher ranking officers who were away on field missions. One of these had been turned into temporary housing for Dr. Li.

The scientist herself sat in a ragged chair before a small table, picking at a cafeteria tray. She seemed disheveled, her usually pristine updo out of sorts. She was wearing her Institute uniform, now worn and stained by many questionable substances. She looked...haggard. 

"Really?" Myra grumbled, walking over to the table and picking at the slop with a disgusted look on her face. "Gruel? Is that any way to treat an asset? Particularly one you made me swear not to lay a finger on?"

"She's got you there, Maxson," Dr. Li muttered. "The nutritional paste in the Institute was at least bland, not...this."

Myra dug in her pack, extracting a slightly bruised mutfruit. Danse didn't even want to ask how long she'd had it. "Here," she said, offering it to Dr. Li.

"Thanks," she said curtly, taking the fruit. She glared up at Maxson. "I'm still not going to help you. Kill me if you want, but I'm done."

"Whoa, hey, who said anything about killing?" Myra asked. She glared at the Elder. "Did you threaten her?"

Arthur frowned. "I just reminded her that it was in her best interest to comply."

"Damn it, sir!" Myra exclaimed. "You can't just..." She scoffed. "No wonder everyone's afraid of you. Even the Institute has a better bedside manner."

"I.." Maxson sighed. "I suppose you may have a point, Knight. I'm sorry, Doctor," he continued, turning to Madison. "I shouldn't have been so hard on you."

"Damn right you shouldn't have!" Dr. Li snipped. "This is why I didn't come back to the Brotherhood of Steel right away! I have...other projects that require my attention. So why don't you just accept that I'm not going to help you rebuild your death machine and let me get back to helping people? Unless you're happy to let rogue Watchers continue destroying the Commonwealth."

Myra held a hand up. "Hang on a moment, Madison. I'm not finished with you either." The look she shot the scientist was less piercing than the one Maxson had received, but it was no less a reprimand. "Don't forget what you owe me."

"Owe you?" Madison laughed in disbelief. "I don't owe you a damn thing, Miss Larimer! I saved your life!"

"By expressly going against my wishes!" Myra hissed. "By sentencing me to half a year of torment underground! I'd say you owe me a few favors, wouldn't you?"

"And you're really going to cash them in to help the Brotherhood?" Dr. Li sighed. "I thought you were smarter than this. Your son, for all his issues, certainly is. Must have gotten that from Nathaniel."

"You're part of the deal, Madison. Not the totality of it." Myra glanced at Danse, and the paladin was shocked to see a crooked grin on her face. Wait...had she planned for this all along?

"What are you doing, Larimer?" he asked.

"I'm remembering who I am," she replied. "I'm not a soldier, Danse. I'm a copyright lawyer. And a damn good one."

"How the hell does copyright law help us here?" Madison asked testily.

"Well, as one of the original creators of the Brotherhood's version of Liberty Prime," Myra said, her grin widening, "You have some claim as to how and why it is used. I'm sure the Brotherhood didn't ask your permission to rebuild it, did they?"

Elder Maxson bristled. "She forfeited any claim to Liberty Prime when she left our service," he stated. "Besides, there are no courts to debate this in. This is not the world you knew, Knight."

"That is abundantly clear," she retorted. "But I don't need a court to uphold Dr. Li's claim. I'm merely reminding you that she, at least in any way that matters, owns the rights to use her knowledge of liberty Prime to aid anyone who might be...favorably impacted by such expertise. Do you really want to force her hand, when I'm certain any number of parties in the 'Wealth would love to get their hands on what she knows?" Myra chuckled. "You need her. More than that, you need her on your side. So I suggest you compromise, sir."

Danse couldn't help but smile as Myra continued her impassioned speech. It had been a long time since she'd seen her this riled up, this eager to fight for what she believed in. He was afraid that her spirit had died with her first trip to the Institute -- or, perhaps most painfully, with her decision to turn her back on her beliefs to be with him. It thrilled him to see her shine. Myra, in spite of everything, was still Myra. And he loved her the most when she was on fire.

Her argument seeming to reach its conclusion, Myra offered a hand to Maxson. "So here's the deal. My client will work on the non-lethal portions of your toy soldier project. No more, no less. Once her contract is up, she is free to go about her business or remain as she sees fit. In return, I ask that the Brotherhood aid the Minutemen in rebuilding their settlements and protecting the Commonwealth by tracking down and destroying this new threat. I also request that I be assigned to that effort." Her smile deepened. "Respectfully, of course, Elder."

Maxson groaned. "Well played, Larimer." He took her hand and shook it firmly. "I accept your proposal. With one caveat."

Myra's grin faded as her eyes met his. Danse could feel dread building in his gut. Arthur was up to something as well, and whatever it was, Myra would pay dearly for everything she gained in this negotiation. The Elder may not have been charming, but he was a hell of a strategist. In many ways, he and Myra were exceptionally matched.

"What do you want, Elder?" Myra asked hesitantly.

"I cannot spare both you and Paladin Danse to go chasing after shadows," Arthur replied. "He will remain on the Liberty Prime project with the remainder of his old recon team. You will be under Paladin Costa for the duration of your diplomatic outreach."

"Is that really necessary?" Danse objected. "Larimer only just returned and I...we..."

Arthur sighed. "Like I said, Danse, I need my best men here. I'm sorry, but if Knight Larimer insists on playing diplomat, she will have to do it without you."

Myra's eyes widened, and she sputtered slightly. "I..." she sighed. "Fine. If that's what you need to keep me in line, so be it. Do we have a deal?"

"We do," Maxson agreed. He turned back to Doctor Li. "As long as you have no further moral objections, Doctor?"

Madison thought for a long moment. "I certainly have objections," she offered finally. "But I'm sure Miss Larimer has already made contingencies for those as well." She sighed. "I'll meet Proctor Ingram at the warehouse. Once you all get out of my room, that is."

The three of them filed out, returning to the gangway. Maxson walked with them as far as Danse's quarters before taking his leave. "I imagine you two have some goodbyes to say," he said, a fire in his steely eyes. "Larimer, I want you to report to the Cambridge Police Station in the morning."

Danse struggled to keep his composure. Arthur had been cruel to him before, but this? He knew that the Elder wasn't lying about resources being spread thin, but his reason could barely keep up with his fury at having Myra taken away again. After the day they'd had, especially, he wanted time to just hold her and love her and keep her safe. If she left in this state, would he ever see her again?

Still, he couldn't bring himself to disobey an order, so he simply nodded and let Maxson leave.

"I'm sorry," Myra said softly, tucking her hand in his. "I should have known I couldn't get everything I wanted."

Danse sighed, leading her into his quarters. "Come on. We can discuss this later. Right now, you should rest. It's been a...trying day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, that wasn't good, was it? I really struggled with who would pull the trigger. In the end, Myra was the right choice. She still has to face the consequences of her choices, and one of those is that she has to learn to make the hard decisions. She has to start being okay with getting blood on her hands.
> 
> EDITED to add gore warning (sorry that I forgot) and to fix a section I accidentally deleted (whoops!)
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Myra and her squad head to the castle to negotiate with Preston.


	6. The Ambassador

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preston does his best to negotiate with the Brotherhood. Myra's confidence in her choices faces another blow.
> 
> ** Trigger Warning: Aftermath of Assault, Implied Assault. Read at your own risk. **

Colonel Preston Garvey paced the Castle walls nervously, his eyes turned towards the Airport. The _Prydwen_ was massive even at this distance, hanging over the ruined terminal like a storm cloud. Even though it had been there for months, he still wasn't used to the sight. He'd done his best to be objective, to give the Brotherhood of Steel the benefit of the doubt. He never liked a group's reputation to be more important than his own impressions. But over the last few months, he'd consistently weighed the Brotherhood by their words as well as their actions. And more often than not, he found them lacking.

After his General had vanished with Paladin Danse, he'd tried to come up with a reasonable explanation of why she'd abandoned her troops. Last he'd heard, she'd planned on taking a vacation to think about the future. He had expected to hear the results of her soul-searching. Instead, he'd received months of radio silence. Now, he was in his third month of negotiations with the Brotherhood for the security of the Commonwealth, and Myra was still nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps it was his fault. Preston had always given Myra far more autonomy than a General should have. He never rebuked her when she went off on missions with the 'Wealth's other factions, or reminded her that she'd made a commitment to the Minutemen first. She made a heck of a symbol, but as a military leader, Myra was definitely lacking. And it was his job as her second-in-command to keep her in line, he supposed. If he was even able to.

The woman was a force of nature, in both the best and the worst ways. Preston knew he'd be crazy to try and contain her, but he wished she'd at least do her job once in a while. He hated having to make excuses every time he opened negotiations. It gave the impression that the Minutemen weren't organized. A true enough impression, but not the way he wanted the militia to be perceived.

A soft whir grabbed the Colonel's attention, and he turned towards the northwest. The vertibird was still far off, but he could recognize it. Nothing else dominated the Commonwealth sky quite like the aircrafts. Still, it was odd. He was expecting another envoy from the Airport. This one seemed to be coming from Cambridge instead. Were they switching up their negotiation team? Was that a good sign, or a bad one?

Kestrel Davis fell in beside him. The tiny blonde smirked at Preston, nudging him with her spear. "Deathclaw piss in your laundry hamper, Garvey?"

He sighed. "Just trying to figure out how long we can keep the Brotherhood from taking over our whole territory."

She shrugged. "We can't."

Preston rolled his eyes. "Kes..." he warned.

"I know, I know," she replied. "But look at the facts, Garvey. We have what, six settlements that are still flying our flag? Out of over a dozen? The Brotherhood's got better gear, better discipline...it's amazing that they've still agreed to negotiate with us at all, really."

"But we can't just give up!" the Colonel exclaimed. "You can't really think we'd be better off if we just give in to Elder Maxson's demands and let the Brotherhood absorb us. You know what that'd mean for The Slog? For your Outpost? For anyone who doesn't play by their rules?"

"Of course we shouldn't give up!" Kes retorted, her grey eyes flashing dangerously. "But you have to face the fact that we're negotiating from a place of weakness right now. If we want to win, we have to find a way to turn that into a strength."

Preston watched her carefully. He knew Kestrel's tactics better than anyone. After all, she'd managed to trick him when they'd first met. "How do you suggest we do that?"

The spy grinned. "Not sure yet. We'll have to watch carefully, keep an eye out for oversights or weaknesses. Anything we can use to our advantage."

The vertibird landed heavily outside the Castle gates, soldiers in power armor spilling from its belly like mirelurk hatchlings. Three, no four knights accompanied whatever high ranking officer they'd deigned to present this time. They formed ranks before the craft, silvery armor shining blindingly in the sun, and issued a salute to their leader.

The paladin with them had his helmet off, presumably as a show of good faith. His dark hair was immaculately styled, resting with a swoop atop an aquiline face. Preston didn't recognize him.

As the man exited the vertibird, Preston caught a hint of combat armor behind him, the military green a startling contrast to all the chrome. The paladin barked a barely audible order at whomever was behind him, extending an arm to help them out of the craft. The figure hesitated for a moment before ignoring his offer and leaping the two feet or so to the ground on their own.

Preston's eyes widened as the figure removed their helmet, revealing brilliant silvery hair. 

"Well, fuck me, It's the general!" Kes crowed, waving down at Myra. "And here I thought you'd traded us in for a better-armed model!"

"It's good to see you too, Kestrel," Myra yelled back. "I suppose you know why I'm here."

"Well," Kes joked, "given that you flew in with a whole squad of muscle boys, either you're the Brotherhood's new ambassador or you're here for a hostile takeover. So do I need to grease up my ripper, or break out the good wine?"

"I promise, it's the former," Myra reassured the spymaster, though her voice didn't sound quite sincere. "Hey, Preston!" she called to the Colonel, offering him a wave and a soft, nervous smile.

"H-hey." Preston had been planning what he'd say to her for months, should she ever return. Over the course of their current crisis, he'd ranted and chided her countless times, demanding answers and ripping into her for abandoning the Minutemen in their hour of need. The shadows in his quarters were likely sick of his speeches by now. And yet, now that she was here...he wasn't even certain what to say. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, he cleared his throat. "Glad you're not dead," he managed.

"Same to you," she replied. Even from this distance, he could see the guilt in her eyes. Part of him wanted to let her off easy. After all, shouldn't he just be glad that she was here now? But all the same, what she'd done, or rather left undone... Preston sighed. He was angry, of course. He had been for months, from the moment Taffington was hit and Myra was nowhere to be found. She owed him an explanation, probably a far better one than any she could muster.

He'd be an idiot not to know why she'd joined up with the Brotherhood and abandoned her other duties. Love was a powerful force. He knew that all too well. But he had honestly thought that Myra was strong enough to resist, strong enough to have a limb in all worlds. Preston knew that she would never be just his General. He'd accustomed himself to that. But he'd never expected her to abandon the role so totally.

In the end, he had to say something. "Next time you leave, at least tell me what's going on, will you?" he called. "You didn't even write me to tell me you weren't coming back! Do you know how hard it's been without a General?"

She winced. "I sort of just assumed you'd take it over," she replied. "You are the next in command."

"Well, I have been keeping things more or less together, no thanks to you," Preston replied. "We're in trouble, Myra. It would have been good to have some leadership."

Myra's eyes fell. "I know," she said almost too softly for him to hear. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't cut it, but..."

The woman before him may have been in full heavy combat armor, but she looked smaller, weaker than he remembered. Myra's eyes, her demeanor, everything was eerily submissive. Even still, her guard was up in a way it had never been around him. She was suffering, and in the face of that, his anger no longer seemed to matter.

Preston ran down the stairway and out of the gate to meet her. As soon as he reached her side, he pulled her into a tight hug. "I missed you, General," he relented. "For what it's worth, I really am glad you're okay."

Myra returned the hug forcefully. "I'm not," she murmured. "But it's damn good to see you too."

For a long time, neither of them moved. Honestly, Preston wasn't sure which of them needed the hug more. As he held her, felt her cool hands on his back, he felt a faint hope begin to burn anew in his heart. Myra, the woman he'd seen do incredible, impossible things, was back. Not the way he would have preferred it, but she was back. With her by his side, the Colonel couldn't help but feel like their cause was less hopeless. If she really was here to help negotiate a peace with the Brotherhood, perhaps that alliance had a chance after all.

The paladin behind her cleared his throat, his mouth twisted in a leering grin that didn't reach his eyes. "How come you never great me that way, Knight?"

Myra pushed Preston away, her cheeks flushed. "Colonel Garvey, this is Paladin Costa, my commanding officer for this mission. Paladin, this is Colonel Garvey of the Commonwealth Minutemen, my dear friend."

Preston looked him over, scowling. The man bothered him, but he wasn't certain why. Maybe it was the insincerity in his muddy green eyes, or the way his smile seemed to show too many teeth. "What happened to Paladin Danse?" the Colonel asked. "I assumed...I mean, isn't he your sponsor?"

Myra bit her lower lip. "He's on another mission," she stated blankly.

The Colonel sighed. No wonder she looked like garbage. "That's a shame. I would have rather worked with him."

"I assure you, I'm more than capable!" Costa exclaimed.

"Regardless," Preston replied, "I've worked with Paladin Danse before. I trust him."

The paladin snorted. "Danse would be a terrible diplomat. He's too uptight!"

"That's what I like about him," Preston grumbled. "He always says what he means. The man's got integrity."

Costa's eyes narrowed. "I don't appreciate your implication, Colonel."

Myra stepped between them, glaring at Costa. "Sir, with all respect, don't antagonize our potential allies."

The paladin scoffed. "This is a nice fort," he growled. "A shame it's being run by poorly-armed farmers."

"Excuse me?" Preston shot back, taking a step forward. "The Commonwealth is our home, and we have a right to defend it!"

Kes fired her pearl-handled pistol in the air, drawing their attention. "Whoa! Stand down! Both of you!"

They stared each other down, neither man willing to relent. Preston groaned internally. This was exactly why negotiations had stalled. In the end, the Brotherhood just didn't respect the Minutemen, did they? Why else would they send an asshole like Costa to bring their latest treaty?

Myra sighed. "Let me patch this up," she murmured to Costa, her eyes barely making contact with his. "Unless you want to be the one to tell Elder Maxson that...um...that we lost any hope of reconciling our factions."

"I..." Costa scoffed. "Insubordinate little..." In a huff, he stomped off towards the vertibird, barking out orders to the rest of his unit.

Preston winced as he watched the man kick a scrap of wood into the lake with his heavy steel boot. "Where did you manage to find that one?" he asked.

"I'm halfway convinced that he's just a really tan super mutant who managed to fool the Brotherhood," Myra groaned. "You have no idea how hard it's been not to just shoot him."

Kestrel laughed from her lookout. "Hey, if you want, I've got a bead on him right now. We take out the vertibird and toss em all to the mirelurks, and who's gonna know?"

"Don't you dare!" Preston shot back. "Like it or not, we need these talks to go smoothly."

"Both of us do," Myra replied. "So shall we take this inside, or do you want to wait for his hissy fit to be over?"

Preston nodded. "After you, General." They walked through the gate and into the courtyard. "Welcome home, by the way."

Myra offered him a weak little smile, a pale shadow of the grin he was used to. What the hell had happened to her in those months away? Preston had assumed that she'd been with Danse, enjoying some rest and relaxation while the world burned around her. Had that not been the case? And even if Danse had been reassigned, why wasn't he with her anyhow? The man Preston knew would have fought tooth and nail to stay by Myra's side. Something must have happened to change that. But what?

"Wait. Is she still the General, then?" Kes asked breathlessly, running down the stairs to catch up with them. "I mean, she did abandon the Minutemen. A lot of people died. Are you just glossing over that?"

The Colonel sighed, his train of thought hopelessly derailed. "That's up to her," he told Kestrel. "Honestly, we've had worse generals."

"That's really fuckin' sad," Kes muttered. "Back home, we'd have crucified her the second she showed back up here, negotiations be damned. We definitely wouldn't have given a traitor her old job back. Not without good reason, anyway," she concluded under her breath.

Myra gulped. "That's...not on the table, right?"

Preston shrugged. "Depends," he joked. "Kestrel's been trying to get me to okay crucifixions since she signed up, you know. Honestly, I'm starting to run out of reasons why that's such a bad idea. Outside of that it's not polite."

"It's really not," Myra replied, her smile widening slightly. "I'm not sure I'm allowed to be the General any more, though. I did sort of take the Oath, so like it or not, I belong to the Brotherhood."

The Colonel shook his head, his heart sinking. That explained, well, not everything, but a lot of her behavior. "So you did go through with it. I was wondering."

She blushed slightly. "I...I was going to tell you. Things just...got complicated."

Kes snorted. "I'll bet that's a pretty normal excuse for you, isn't it?" Preston shot her a warning glare, and she at least had the decency to pretend that she was intimidated by him. "I'll just go make sure the rest of our shiny guests don't get lost on the way to the conference room," she muttered, heading for the gate.

"I'm...I'm really sorry things worked out like this," Myra continued after Kes was out of earshot. "I never meant...I needed to protect Danse. It was the only way. I...I thought it was the only way." Her eyes were clouded, distant. It made Preston's heart break to see her like this.

"Paladin Danse can look after himself, can't he?" the Colonel asked as softly as he could muster. "What about you? The way things are, who's looking after you?"

Myra scoffed bitterly. "Like that matters."

He stared at her, trying to make sense of her behavior. Was she still grieving her son, as she'd been the last time she was at the Castle? Hurt like that probably didn't go away after a few months. But even then, she'd hardly been this defeated. "I'd like to show you something, Myra," Preston said finally, offering her his arm.

She took it tentatively, as if afraid to make contact with him. "Okay," she agreed.

He led her to her old quarters, showing her the various improvements they'd made in her absence along the way. The herb garden had flourished, taking over a much larger portion of the courtyard now. Nearby, a storage shed and small canning facility had sprung up, preparing non-perishable food and storing it away. In nearly every hall the walls had been reinforced with steel and other salvaged metals, great rivets holding the plates to the crumbling stonework of the original fort. Even as their settlements were burning, the Minutemen were preparing for a final stand. It was all they could do, as much as Preston hated to admit it. Someday soon, the Castle was likely to be besieged, whether by Watchers or the Institute itself. Hell, if these negotiations didn't change something soon, even the Brotherhood was probably going to be banging on the door.

Myra took it all in without a word, watching him carefully as he described each improvement. Her face was normally so expressive and honest that it was disconcerting to see her so...guarded. Was she just worn out, or was she taking advantage of their familiarity to gather intel for her masters? It pained Preston that he had to question her motives, but such were the times they were living in. As happy as he was to have Myra back, he couldn't run the risk of assuming she was on his side.

Finally, he opened the door to her room, leading her inside. Myra gasped as she looked around. Everything was exactly how she'd left it, down to the canned goods on her storage shelf. Well, almost everything. There, in the corner by her desk, was a female mannequin, her pre-War hairdo painted white. She was wearing the General's uniform, complete with tricorn hat, holding a laser musket and staring towards the door with hollow green eyes.

As soon as Myra saw it, she cracked up, her tormented visage fading into something closer to the woman he remembered. "What the hell is this?" she asked.

"We missed you, General," Preston said gently. "And like it or not, you're always gonna be our General. So don't tell me it doesn't matter, or that no one's looking out for you. You still have people who care about you, people you can trust if you're in trouble."

"Preston..." Myra kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I'm not sure if I'm moved or a little scared. Please tell me no one else has seen this."

"Hey, it was Deacon's idea," Preston replied, a little embarrassed. "He thought it would be fun to prop up in the guardhouse. You know, for the intimidation factor."

Myra froze. "You've been in contact with Deacon?" she asked.

The Colonel nodded. "Not frequently. But he has swung by a few times since you left. We've sort of been...helping each other with this Watcher thing. Or we were. Since we started courting the Brotherhood, he's obviously been making himself pretty scarce."

She sighed. "Yeah, that's not surprising." Myra kicked at the floor with the toe of her boot, her eyes distant. Eventually, she continued. "Is he...doing okay?" she asked softly.

Preston shrugged, genuinely unsure of how to answer her. "I mean, I don't know him that well," he replied.

"Does anyone?" Myra asked with a faint laugh. "I guess that was a stupid question."

"I don't know if it helps or not," the Colonel continued, "but on the rare occasions he does stop by, Deacon always makes an effort to visit this room."

She smiled sadly. "I'm...not really sure what I wanted to hear. But I --"

Preston's radio crackled to life, cutting her off.

"Hey, Garvey?" Kestrel's voice rang through the static. "You and the General had better get your asses to the conference room. Costa's pitching a fit. Oh. And can you bring a new water pitcher?"

Preston gulped. "Well, that doesn't sound good."

* * *

Preston and Myra raced into the meeting room, their weapons drawn. Shards of ceramic decorated the concrete floor, spilled water painting dark splashes across the shabby gray surface. Across the table stood Costa, his laser rifle trained at Kes. The rest of his squad formed up behind him, holding the Minuteman delegation at gunpoint. Most of the militiamen were unarmed, as this was supposed to be a peace talk. Those who were had only pipe pistols. Kestrel had her spear leveled at him, a frenzied look in her eyes.

"What the hell?" Preston bellowed. "We invited you here for a negotiation, not a massacre! Stand down, for God's sake!"

"Your...savage tried to poison us!" Paladin Costa retorted, a cold fury in his eyes.

"Oh, that's real nice," Kes muttered. "Fuckin' Brotherhood. Every day I regret blowing up that bunker in the desert even less."

"That's not helpful, Lieutenant Davis," Preston chided. "Put the spear down."

"Poison?" Myra asked, concerned. "What makes you say that?"

"I asked where this water came from, because it tasted fresher than any I've had since shipping to this backwater," Costa explained. "And she says it's sourced from a settlement run entirely by ghouls?"

Preston nodded. "Yes. The Slog has one of the most advanced water filtration systems we've built," he explained. "A lot of our food comes from there, as well. Their tarberries are the best in the region."

Costa groaned. "It's worse than I thought. You actually...work with those things?"

Myra frowned. "They...they're not ferals, sir."

"They will be some day," he shot back. "Larimer, you understand that, don't you? They're not human."

"They're our allies!" Preston exclaimed. "And they're hospitable, kind people. Unlike some I could mention."

Myra nodded in agreement. "I know the Brotherhood doesn't trust ghouls," she replied softly, still standing in the doorway with her weapon drawn but at rest. "But Elder Maxson himself has made it clear that they are not a threat until they become feral. Then, and only then, do we eradicate them." 

"Enough, Larimer!" Costa shot back. "Shut your mouth and stay out of this! After that stunt you pulled at the Police Station, you're on thin ice. Or have you forgotten?"

Myra lowered her head slightly, fear in her eyes. "I...yes sir," she murmured. "But I..." Myra sighed, but didn't continue her thought.

Costa's eyes lit up at her submission, his laser rifle still aimed at Kes. "I won't stand for it! If these farmers want our support, they can't be consorting with monsters."

Kestrel shook her head. "You're an idiot," she snarled. "Go on. Shoot me. My men will make sure your body's never found."

"Can everyone just calm down?" Preston exclaimed. "No one's killing anyone today."

"Are you sure about that?" Kes asked, her eyes narrowing as she stared daggers at Costa. "Sure, Crostata here doesn't have the balls, but I sure as hell do."

"I'm not going to just stand here and let this...lawless savage howl at me!" the paladin snarled. He fired a laser round just above Kestrel's head, nearly deafening the assembly. "The next one goes through her head."

Preston looked to Myra, panic clouding his mind. "What are you waiting for, General?" he hissed. "Do something!"

Myra's lower lip trembled as she looked between Kes and Costa, her laser rifle still idle in her shaking hands. She shook her head.

"What the hell does that mean?" Kes screamed. "Are you the General or aren't you?"

Costa snorted in derision. "Knight Larimer, I know you aren't considering violating a direct order," he growled, a threat barely concealed in his reminder.

Myra whimpered like a kicked dog, her eyes racing between Costa and Preston. "I...can't let you do this," she managed.

"Excuse me?" Costa crowed.

Myra stood to her full height, the fear in her eyes vying for control against the fierce determination that Preston knew her for. "Stand. Down," she snarled. "Or leave, and let me finish this negotiation without you. Trust me, my report to Maxson will be thorough. And I'll make sure it arrives before yours." She turned to the other soldiers. "Anyone who actually wants to do their job, put your guns away and sit the hell down. I'll ask Colonel Garvey to provide water from the pumps here if that will calm you down."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Costa bellowed, rounding on her.

Myra winced as he stomped towards her, but held her ground. "I'm here on Elder Maxson's authority. N-not yours. I know these people. I know how to handle them. And threatening them over something like this is not the way. You should know better...sir."

Costa lowered his weapon, though his eyes still burned with rage as they looked over Myra. "We'll talk later, knight," he snarled.

"I...I know," Myra murmured. She no longer looked determined or scared. She just looked...resigned. Preston couldn't help but find her meek expression much more frightening.

The paladin stomped to the head of the table, leaning his armored hands on it. "Sit," he commanded. The rest of his squad stood down, taking their seats at the table.

Preston exhaled in relief, waving his minutemen over as well. "Take a seat," he said softly. He could barely hear over the sound of his heart racing. They'd come so close to outright conflict, the spark that would have meant a war between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood. He hated to imagine what would have happened if Myra hadn't intervened. "Now, where shall we begin?"

* * *

The negotiations went long into the night before they had been forced to recess for the day when the Castle suffered an unexpected power outage. According to Ronnie Shaw, some damned mirelurk hatchlings had gotten into the generator again. By lanternlight, the assembly had agreed to reconvene in the morning.

It was for the best, really. If Preston's own fatigue was any indication, everyone was exhausted and hungry. So, after almost ten hours of negotiations, both groups had retired to the mess hall before finding their quarters. For his part, Preston stayed in the mess hall until everyone else had departed. Partially, this was to ensure the peace. Tensions were still high from the morning, and he didn't entirely trust the Brotherhood to not cause a fuss. But he had to admit that the main reason he stayed was to give himself time to think.

He'd meant what he'd said to Myra, that she'd always be the General. In spite of everything, Preston still believed in her, in the good that could come to the Commonwealth through her. He refused to give up on the dream of a united Commonwealth under the protection of the Minutemen, a return to Old World values upheld by wasteland ingenuity. Myra was a symbol of this, of course. But she was more than that. She was strong, determined, tenacious. She was...everything the woman he'd seen today was not.

Preston couldn't help himself. He was worried that the woman he'd chosen to follow was gone forever. This Myra who had flown in was different. Lesser. Had she been replaced with a synth while she was in the Institute? That was possible, he supposed. But wouldn't a synth spy try to cause chaos, not almost refuse to get involved? Besides, he wasn't convinced that was the issue. Myra was still Myra. Bust she was as scared as he'd ever seen her. Something about Costa, about the way he looked at her...there was a sadistic hunger in his eyes, a hunger Preston had seen before in the Gunners who'd attacked Quincy. It disgusted him, but more than that, it worried him.

The Colonel's eyes widened as his thoughts connected. Myra was not okay. She had said so herself. She was not okay, and Costa was involved.

Preston leapt to his feet, heading for Myra's quarters. She'd retired early, almost three hours prior, making her way across the courtyard with the light on her Pip-Boy as her guide. She'd looked haunted, nervous. Why hadn't he seen it before?

As the Colonel approached Myra's room, Costa tore through the hall towards him, his eyes darkened in blind fury. He shoved Preston aside, nearly hurling the leaner man into the wall.

"Hey!" Preston barked in surprise, his heart pounding. The look in the paladin's eyes was dark, almost evil. It was almost enough to distract Preston from the long, deep scratches on the man's face. He picked up the pace, nearly sprinting to Myra's door.

Preston pounded on the heavy oak door frantically. "Myra?" he called, his voice cracking. "Are you in there? Are you okay?"

There was no response. He tried again. Still, nothing.

"I'm coming in!" He called, forcing the door open.

The Colonel gasped as he saw what was on the other side. He'd prepared himself for all sorts of possibilities but somehow...somehow actually seeing it was worse than anything his frantic imagination could invent.

Myra was crouched on the floor of her quarters, clutching her knees to her chest. Her flight suit hung off her shoulders, torn and frayed like the last few decayed petals of a daylily after an early season frost. Angry bruises were already beginning to darken on her delicate face, blending into her many scars like they belonged there. She didn't look up as Preston entered the room. Nor did she react as he ripped the blanket from her bed and carefully wrapped it around her shoulders. She was a statue of shock and bitter misery, and all Preston wanted to do was to conceal her from prying eyes.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of them moved. Preston sat on his heels a little way away from her, wanting to reach out, to protect her, but fighting that urge and trying to give her space. Myra sat as still as a stone, clutching weakly at the blanket and sniffing slightly every few moments as if fighting back tears that wouldn't come.

Kes barged in a few minutes later, almost out of breath. "That asshole Costa just stormed out to the vertibird, so I..." her grey eyes widened as they took in the scene before her. "Fuck," she snarled. "That son of a bitch is mirelurk food."

"No!" Myra cried, reaching weakly out for her. "Kes, you can't! If you...the Minutemen can't afford to make the Brotherhood an enemy."

"So what do you want us to do, General?" the blonde asked angrily. "We can't just let that degenerate walk!"

"Nothing happened, Kes," Myra said, her voice shaking. "This is just...there was a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" Preston cried. "Are you serious, Myra?"

"As a nuclear bomb," she replied. "If anyone...this can't leave this room. Or everything we've been trying to build...it'll all be gone."

"But you can't just let someone hurt you!" Kes snarled, looking every bit like a wild desert beast. "Why would you let him get away with this?"

"I...he's my commanding officer, Kestrel," Myra muttered. "What am I supposed to do. If I reported this, who would believe me?" She shook his head. "It'd only risk the ground we made today. I can't..."

Preston sighed. He hated it, but she had a point. Still, from her behavior earlier... "This isn't the first time, is it?" he asked softly.

Myra hesitated for a second, staring past him. Then she shook her head. "About two days after I was assigned to his squad, Costa almost caught me using a dead drop by the Police Station. I found out some things and I...I needed to help. I knew it was risky."

"You were passing information to the Railroad?" Preston asked, staring at her. "Are you crazy? Deacon told me they aren't working with you any more! Why would you risk that?"

Myra cowered slightly. "I had to. They need to know about...things."

Preston sighed, lowering his voice. "I'm not angry. I just want to understand. Take your time."

Myra nodded weakly. "He...he saw me check the drop. I tried to be careful, but he figured it out. He...wasn't kind."

Kestrel rolled her eyes. "That sack of shit in a shiny suit? No, he doesn't strike me as the kind type. So he hit you?"

Myra shook her head. "Not at first. He just...reminded me that I have reasons to behave. And that if those reasons weren't enough, he'd give me more."

"Bastard!" Kes spat.

"So he threatened Danse?" Preston asked.

Myra nodded. "He said he knew about us. That if I was outed as a spy, it would not just hurt me, but end Danse's career. Probably end both our lives. I...I had to do what he said." She shuddered. "Whatever he said," she added softly.

"Oh, Myra," Preston said softly. He couldn't imagine what she'd been through over the past few weeks. But it certainly explained the way she'd been acting. Whatever Costa had done, it had affected her severely. "I'm so, so sorry. If I'd known, I'd--"

"You'd what?" she asked, a bitter edge to her voice. "You'd have let him kill Kes? You'd have risked the chance for peace because of one asshole who doesn't deserve to wear power armor?"

Preston sighed. "I don't know," he said, defeated. "I wish I could have done something. You shouldn't have had to go through this."

Myra smiled weakly at him. "But I did. Now I've just got to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about it."

Kestrel patted her awkwardly on the arm. "You mean what the hell we're going to do about it," she hissed, her grey eyes focused and cold. "Personally, I aim to cut off his dick and wear it as a tiara."

"Let's maybe put that one on the back burner?" Preston asked weakly. "A less gory plan, though, I'm happy to help with. Just tell me what you need, Myra."

Myra nodded. "I appreciate the sentiment," she said softly. "And you're right, both of you." Myra pulled herself to her feet, letting the blanket fall to the floor. "I'm tired of letting fear hold me back," she growled. She unzipped her flight suit the rest of the way, stepping out of it and kicking the tattered fabric to the side.

Preston cried out in surprise, covering his eyes. "Myra, what are you doing?"

He could hear her moving, the sound of rustling fabric by her desk. "I've tried to keep myself safe," Myra continued, "tried to protect the man I love by just doing what I'm told and fitting my ideals around my orders. But I can't let Costa get away with this. If I don't speak up, who will?"

The Colonel felt a flurry in his chest at her words. That voice, that cold determination, had led him to do crazy, almost impossible things. It was the voice of the Woman out of Time, the hero he'd follow anywhere. Still, he was worried that she'd let her ardor carry her away again. Myra's passionate, intuitive way of leading was incredibly inspirational, but it was insanely dangerous if not tempered by a cautious voice. Preston had often been that voice in the past. Perhaps it was time for him to fill the role again.

"What about Paladin Danse?" Preston asked. "Aren't you still worried he'll get caught up in all this?"

"Danse is no longer my commanding officer," Myra said, her voice barely audible over the sound of metal being clasped. "I got caught under Costa's command. Danse cannot be blamed for me spying on the Brotherhood. Or for what I'm about to do."

"Which is?" Preston asked, carefully peeling his hands from his face.

Myra stood before him like an avenging angel, kitted out in the General's uniform. The blue metal chestplate bore the musket and lightning device, a clear marker of her allegiance. The long navy duster was a little short on her, he noted, but that made the effect almost more impressive. She was imposing. She was exactly who they needed in their corner. And he couldn't have been more proud.

She smirked at him, a nervous flicker in her emerald eyes. "We're going to turn this negotiation to the Minutemen's favor," she stated. "Because we're going to take the fight directly to the Watchers, to prove that we are a force to be reckoned with. And if Costa interferes, I for one have no problem tragically losing my commanding officer in the line of duty. Are we clear?"

Kes stared at her in admiration, letting out a low whistle. "Crystal fuckin' clear," she drawled. "You say the word, General, and my men will take care of it."

Preston sighed. He wasn't in favor of anyone getting murdered in cold blood, not even someone like Paladin Costa. But even he had to admit that they might not have another choice if the man continued hurting Myra and thwarting their negotiations. He didn't like it, but that didn't mean he'd stand in Myra's way. He wasn't that stupid.

"One more question," he said.

"Yeah?" Myra replied.

"Where are we going to find a Watcher nest?"

Myra smirked slightly. "I know a guy who knows things." She pointed at Preston. "And you're gonna bring him to me."

Preston groaned. "Why do I have a feeling that this is going to end badly?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know that these have been some heavy chapters, and I've thrown a LOT of bad stuff at Myra in them. This is for a couple reasons. First, I've needed to give her some reasons to get out of her selfish habits she fell into after the first trip to the Institute, and I felt that overwhelming her with horrible stuff might be what her character needs to finally be like "You know what? No. We aren't doing this," and start being an actual hero. Second, I needed to find a way to bridge where Myra ended up when I was writing in a massive depression towards the end of the last book with where I know she wants to go as a character. I won't retcon what happened, so I have to try and lead the narrative back to what I hope is a stronger and more appealing story. I can't promise that Myra will always be likable, because real people aren't always likable. But I at least want her to be strong enough to hold a narrative together. She will continue to make mistakes (as will I), but what I've always liked about her is her drive to overcome all the crap that the wasteland throws at her. I don't want her to fall apart every time she's got to stand on her own.
> 
> Anyways, sorry for the rant. I hope it makes sense, and I hope that you're still enjoying the story. Either way, I hope you'll stay with me on this journey as I continue to tell it to the best of my ability.
> 
> -Mnemoli
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Danse and Rhys head back to the Glowing Sea. Haylen makes a startling discovery.


	7. The Storm Clouds Gather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse and Rhys head back to the Glowing Sea. Danse receives a troubling message from Haylen.

Paladin Danse sat at his desk, reading and rereading the letter before him. It had been weeks since he'd last seen Myra, last held her in his arms as she trembled against him. In those last stolen moments before she'd shipped off to the Police Station to meet up with Costa, Danse hadn't had the heart to tell her what was weighing on his mind. He didn't want to put more pressure on her, knowing how she was struggling. The paladin had just wanted to treasure their time together, to give her a safe, warm, happy place to rest her head.

He had been sending letters to her, reminding her that he was still there for her even if she was no longer under his command for the time being. It killed him that she was in the field without him, but Arthur had been right. The Brotherhood's mission to revive Liberty Prime was too important to let the bond between two officers get in the way. And so Danse had to content himself with this archaic form of communication, rather than just being with Myra.

This most recent reply had arrived five days ago, and he wasn't completely certain what it signified. It was shorter than Myra's previous letters, written in a more hurried hand. Her elegant cursive was sloppy, rushed, and that alarmed him. At the same time, however, he tried to remind himself that she was on an important mission too. Perhaps she'd simply run out of time.

_Senior Paladin Danse,_

_Negotiations are progressing. Am running an op with the Minutemen to foster cooperation. Hope you and Recon Squad Gladius are safe._

_-Knight Larimer_

Her tone bothered him. There was a stilted, formal quality to her words that was unlike her previous letters. For one thing, Myra rarely used their ranks in her correspondences, keeping things infuriatingly and endearingly informal. It was like she usually didn't care who else might see her letters or what they might glean from them. To see such a brief, almost report-like note from her was unusual. Disconcerting, even. Was she hiding something?

Danse had heard whispers, rumors of discontent among Paladin Costa's men. Normally he would have dismissed these as typical underling complaints, but even Knight Rhys had expressed a dislike for the man and his methods. Rhys, while he always spoke his mind, was typically above such scuttlebutt, so his complaints were something Danse took incredibly seriously. Apparently, Costa was lazy, lascivious, and prone to volatile bouts of anger when he didn't get his way. How such a man had become a Paladin was beyond Danse. Brothers of their rank were meant to be paragons of virtue, true role models for their soldiers and exemplars of the Brotherhood of Steel's values and mission. There was little room in their ranks for weakness, and such a personality as Costa's was certainly weak, if the rumors were to be believed.

Myra would not respect a man like Costa, Danse knew. Hell, Danse wasn't always certain she even respected him, and she loved him. Myra was strong-willed, stubborn, and not the greatest at following orders. If Costa was truly as insecure as Rhys had reported, he and Myra would more than clash. Hell, she would eat the man alive, or...

Danse frowned, his heart clenched. He'd sent her a reply almost immediately, of course. He always did. But after five days, he'd still received no word in reply. Was Myra safe with Costa? He shook his head. No, it wasn't like him to be so distrustful of his fellows. Arthur had assigned her to Costa. He would not put Myra in danger like that. Danse had to have faith in his friend and Elder, if nothing else.

Sighing, Danse refolded the letter and placed it in his desk drawer with the others. There wasn't time to speculate this morning. He and his squad were meeting with Proctor Ingram to receive their next mission, and the engineer hated when people wasted her time. He had to be more than punctual.

The paladin threw on a clean flight suit, folding up his old one and placing it carefully in his hamper. It was nearly full, he noted. Perhaps he'd have to do laundry when he returned from the operation. He frowned in disdain as he looked over his quarters. He really needed to take a day off and deep-clean, but with so much going on, even a man as fastidious as he was simply couldn't find the time. Danse hastily stacked his old food trays and swept the most offensive snack wrappers into his trash can. He could at least drop the trays off at the mess hall as he went to get his armor. That was...marginally better, at least.

The _Prydwen_ was eerily quiet as he made his way towards the armor bay. Yes, the familiar hum and whir of her engines still echoed, but the ship herself was almost abandoned at present. Here and there, a patrolling guard stomped past him, but most of the personnel had been transferred below to the airport as the Brotherhood continued to rebuild and fortify the structure. After the attacks on their cooperating farms, the Brotherhood had redoubled their efforts to establish a more permanent base on the site. They could not rely on outside food forever, not with their supplies getting cut off without warning. So Elder Maxson had made the call that farms should be established near the bay, and all personnel not assigned to outside missions were either helping prepare the soil or working around the clock to excavate more of the terminal.

It seemed strange to have the airship so empty, but Danse didn't mind the quiet. Not exactly. It was oddly soothing, in a way, like for a moment the constant peril he and his fellows were in ceased to exist. It was almost the same feeling he had being with Myra, of being unfettered by circumstance and just being able to genuinely be himself. That was a small luxury, but one he had rarely gotten the chance to indulge. If he was honest, it scared him even as much as it soothed him.

When he was younger, fear of starvation or worse had kept him unable to focus much on what it meant to be Tristan Danse. Then, when he and Ethan had found each other -- no, when Ethan had saved him, if he was being fair -- he was so caught up in keeping his only friend safe that he still hadn't found much time for personal development. Joining the Brotherhood of Steel was meant to take those pressures away, to give him a chance to breathe, but all Danse had done was dedicate himself passionately to another cause, another thing that stood between him and facing who he really was. He became fixated on protecting humanity from itself, and while that was a noble goal, sometimes he wondered if it was just an excuse to avoid the bigger questions.

Danse had never met his parents. He had been abandoned with only a name, a blank slate with no past and no future. That he had built anything on that foundation was a miracle. But in many ways, these nagging moments of calm reminded him that he was still a blank slate underneath his rhetoric. The idea of how much of himself he still didn't know was terrifying. Every time his role of protector was broken -- from losing men under his command, to killing Ethan in what now seemed a possibly premature move, to the number of times Myra had nearly died in his care -- Danse could feel the hollowness underneath. He couldn't fathom who he was if he wasn't able to save the people he loved. It was why he took every loss so personally. It was why, in spite of himself, he feared he would never truly find peace.

Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps everyone felt like this, unsure of who they were beneath the role they'd chosen for themselves. But Danse hoped that he was wrong. What was the point, if all anyone truly had was a thin veneer of identity? There had to be more. There just had to be.

Danse let out a slow, shaky breath as he turned the valve on the back of his power armor, the pneumatic hiss almost harmonizing with him. He felt better almost immediately as he returned to his familiar shell. The power armor was more than physical protection to him. It was a reminder of who he had chosen to be, a role he could dedicate himself to. There was safety and true power in that. Not only did he feel like he could take on the world, but he knew that whatever thoughts plagued him this morning would fade away in light of his mission.

"Myra is safe," he reassured himself. "Your concern is unfounded and irrational. She is with her brothers and sisters, and if that is not enough, she's with the Minutemen. Just clear your mind and do your job, Paladin."

"Talking to yourself, sir?" a voice piped up behind him.

Danse turned to see Rhys watching him with critical hazel eyes that bore just a hint of mirth. "I...thought we were rendezvousing at the gantry," he stated, hoping his embarrassment didn't show.

Rhys nodded. "Yeah, but Ingram took one look at me and sent me back for my power armor. Apparently we're both going to need it where we're going." His perpetual scowl softened just a little. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked softly.

"You're questioning my fitness?" Danse retorted, more forcefully than he'd meant.

Rhys visibly took a step back. "No, sir! Not at all, sir! I just...worry about you."

Danse sighed. "There's no need to be concerned, knight," he replied. "I just have a lot of responsibilities to take into account." He patted Rhys on the arm. "You'll be in charge of your own squad someday, Rhys. I expect you'll understand it then."

The knight froze at the unexpected contact, his eyes wide. For a moment, Danse worried that he'd overstepped his bounds. But eventually, Rhys seemed to relax. "You really think so, sir?"

"Of course I do," Danse said. "You're not going to remain a knight forever. And between you and me, I believe you show a lot of promise. I'm...sincerely sorry I haven't taken the time to tell you that often. My...I mean, Knight Larimer told me once that being hard on my subordinates is not the only way to hone them into better soldiers. I'm...attempting to follow her advice."

Rhys frowned slightly at the mention of Myra, but his eyes shone with a light that Danse had rarely seen in them before. "I...well, I mean..." he stammered. "You've changed, sir."

"I hope for the better," Danse replied with a smile. "Now, if you're done analyzing me, knight, we have a job to do. Suit up. I'll meet you on the flight deck and we'll travel to the Airport together."

Rhys nodded. "Yes, sir!" he barked, crossing the bay to where his own suit of power armor waited.

Danse couldn't help but smile wider as he watched Rhys. The younger man seemed almost recharged, more eager than ever to do his duty. It seemed that Myra was right. Danse could stand to risk a closer bond with his men, even knowing that he might lose them. Protecting himself from those losses was not nearly as important, not now that she'd already shown him the advantages to being vulnerable. He had to have faith.

* * *

Proctor Ingram scowled at Danse as he and Rhys approached her. "You're early," she grunted, brushing her frazzled red hair from her face with armored fingers. "What have I told you about being early, Danse?"

Danse eyed her with suspicion. He could never quite tell when the engineer was joking. "Elder Maxson says that to be on time is to be late," he replied. "I thought it would be disrespectful to keep you waiting."

"You would," she said with a sigh. Danse worried for a moment that he'd really offended her, but she flashed him a sardonic smile. "Lucky for you, I couldn't sleep last night, so I've already prepared your briefing. If you recall, before Knight Larimer and you had your accident, we had gotten a lead on Prime's nukes. I was planning on sending you after them once you'd returned with a high-powered magnet, but..." she trailed off, concern in her honey brown eyes. "How is Knight Larimer, anyway?" she asked. "I didn't get much time to talk with her before she left."

Danse was genuinely surprised by her concern. He'd always known that Ingram was a kinder soul than she presented, but he hadn't thought that she and Myra had gotten particularly close. To know that she was also worried about Myra was equal parts moving and concerning. "Last I heard, Knight Larimer was well," he replied.

Ingram's smiler seemed more genuine now. "That's good to hear," she said. "Do tell her hello for me when you talk to her next. And tell her that she still owes me another batch of radstag jerky. No one seasons meat like that."

The paladin furrowed his brow. "When did Knight Larimer share jerky with you?" he asked.

Proctor Ingram snorted. "What? You think we never had fun without you? As I recall, you were sulking on the _Prydwen_ the whole time Larimer and I were building the Signal Interceptor."

Danse frowned. "I wasn't sulking, Ingram."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Fine. Whatever the manly, stoic word for sulking is. But that's not why we're here." She brandished a rough map, handing it to Danse. "This is."

He looked at the worn paper curiously. It appeared to be of the southern half of the Commonwealth, as he recognized several landmarks from his travels there. Somerville, that unfortunate settlement...and further to the southeast, the rough location of the supermarket he and Myra had almost died at. The Glowing Sea was delineated with a pale green line, and beyond, far below the market, was a large red x. His eyes widened. "We're heading that far into the Sea?" he asked.

Ingram nodded solemnly. "I know it's not exactly your favorite place, Danse, but that's where we think the nukes we need are. Specifically, we think they're at a storage facility called Sentinel. That's at least where they were before the War. And, lucky you, its your job to go get them for us!"

Knight Rhys paled. "The...the Glowing Sea? We're really going there?"

Danse handed him the map. "Those are our orders, soldier," he said frankly. He looked back to Ingram. "I don't suppose we'll have any support on this mission, given how little we had on the last one."

Ingram shrugged. "Well, we can't risk sending a whole squad in there. I've read your report. But you and Rhys won't be completely alone. I've arranged for Haylen and a few others to secure a small recon outpost in the safe zone just north of the Glowing Sea. There's not much they'll be able to do for you if things get nasty, but at least we'll hear about it if you two are in trouble."

"Well, that's comforting," Rhys groaned.

Danse sighed in agreement. "At least Haylen will be able to keep communications open for a while. The radiation might disrupt our comm frequencies, but it will be good to know that someone may be able to hear us."

"That's the spirit!" Ingram said wryly. "Now get going! I don't want to see either of you without those nukes. Prime's getting cranky without ordinance to throw."

* * *

Danse grunted as his feet slammed into the ground, the shocks on his power armor absorbing almost all the force of his leap from the vertibird. Almost all. He frowned. When he returned to base, he might have to ask Ingram to take a look at his leg armor.

With a heavy thud, Rhys dropped beside him, startling the paladin. He'd gotten so used to bailing out with Myra that he'd forgotten what another armored body sounded like. No wonder people were intimidated by the Brotherhood. The reminder filled his heart with pride.

They had bailed out at the foot of an embankment, its slope scarred with uprooted, skeletal trees and bare patches of ground where nothing had grown for centuries. Here, on the edge of the Glowing Sea, the air was heavier, almost dangerously so. He hoped the squad at the waypoint had taken adequate precautions. Knowing Haylen was among them, he was fairly confident they had.

As they climbed the hill towards the fortified site, Danse couldn't help but notice a spring in Rhys' step that he wouldn't have expected from a man about to walk into certain death. A year ago, he would have wondered what could cause such a lightness in the man's stride. Now, after all that had happened since his last trip here, Danse understood it all too well.

"Eager to see Scribe Haylen, Rhys?" he asked.

The knight froze, his shoulders rigid. "Uh...why would you say that, sir?" He asked, clearly not expecting this conversation.

"How long has it been since we've seen her?" Danse pressed. "It has to have been a week, correct?"

"Thirteen days, actually, sir," Rhys replied.

"Of course," Danse ceded. "My mistake. I suppose that is a long time."

"Why are you bringing this up, sir?" Rhys asked again. Danse could hear a faint edge to his voice. Was it fear? Fear of what?

"I simply assumed that you would be happy to have our squad back together," the Paladin said. "I certainly am looking forward to seeing Haylen again, and I thought you'd share the sentiment."

Rhys sputtered, his ears bright red. Danse felt a small thrill at having elicited such a reaction. No wonder Myra enjoyed teasing everyone around her. There was a great deal of joy to be had in flustering people.

"I...Of course I do," Rhys grumbled. "I just don't see why you're making such a big deal out of it."

"You need to learn how to relax, Knight," Danse retorted. "Trust me, not everything in life..." he paled. Those words. They weren't his words. No, the same sentiment had been shared with him years ago, by Ethan Cutler. He could hear him repeat those words still, his easy smile as he continued. _Trust me, not everything in life is meant to be taken seriously._ That had been one of their last conversations, after Danse had caught his old friend kissing Heather Gautier in the hallway of B Ring. For years, the conversation had haunted him. He'd been convinced that Cutler was wrong, that his flippant and relaxed attitude had been what had gotten his old friend killed. Now, here he was, repeating the same advice to one of his soldiers, and he couldn't help but feel like Cutler might have been right all along. How much easier things might have been if Danse had just relaxed a little, had allowed himself to feel what he wanted to feel, to follow his conscience as much as he followed his duty? Would he and Myra have gotten together earlier? How many moments had he missed out on because he refused to let himself enjoy them?

Rhys watched him, concern in his muddy hazel eyes. "Sir, are you certain you're feeling all right?"

Danse shook his head. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be to plunge headfirst into a radioactive hellstorm. We should report in. It's a long walk to the Sentinel Site, especially if our map is less than accurate."

They continued their climb in relative silence, and it didn't take long before they heard Haylen's gleeful cries.

"Danse! Rhys! You made it!" She bounded towards them, a wide grin on her pale face. "I was wondering when you'd get here! Ingram wasn't exactly liberal with the details."

"She never is," Danse replied with a soft smile. He really had missed the little scribe. In a lot of ways, Haylen was a true sister to him, always honest and open with him even when it might have gotten her in trouble. The world was disappointingly bereft of such earnestness and compassion, he'd found.

"Glad you managed to stay alive without me," Rhys teased her.

Haylen smacked him on the arm, his power armor clanging from the gentle rebuke. "Same goes for you, big guy. If Danse wasn't here to look after you, I'd give you a day, tops."

"Oh, really?" Rhys growled, his eyes betraying the scowl on his face.

Haylen laughed brightly. "Now with that face? Hmm...maybe I underestimated you. I'll bet you could scare away most things."

The knight's fierce grimace faded to a slight smirk. "It is good to see you, Haylen."

"I'll bet it is!" she shot back. "I just wish it was under better circumstances. I have to say, these readings I've been taking?" she shook her head, her eyes filled with worry. "You'd think after all these years the radiation in the Glowing Sea might decrease just a little. But it actually seems to be getting worse. I just hope your power armor holds out."

Danse frowned slightly. "Are your readings really that dire?" he asked.

Haylen nodded. "It's always been one giant radstorm in there, sir. I mean, you know that more than anyone. But it seems like those storms have been growing in intensity, spreading radiation further and further north. I'm not saying it's immediately dire, but I wouldn't be surprised if the whole southern part of the Commonwealth was uninhabitable in a couple decades." She sighed, her eyes distant. "I'm not sure why it's happening, but I have a few theories as to how we can slow it down. Once the war's over, maybe Elder Maxson will be interested in diverting some resources to the problem."

Rhys eyed her with confusion. "So it's decades away? I thought you meant this was a problem now!"

"Well, it is. And it isn't." Haylen sighed, tossing Rhys a satchel. "Here's some extra Rad-X, as well as a few things the locals have been using to stave of the worst symptoms. I know you don't have time for a full-scale scientific analysis of the problem. Just..." she busied herself with the straps of her pack, not making eye contact with Rhys. "Just promise me you two are coming back, okay?" she finished meekly.

Danse could feel the unspoken fear in her voice. Haylen had always been gentle, caring, and perhaps far too sweet a person for the Brotherhood. He had objected when she'd been assigned to Recon Squad Gladius, had argued that she was too emotional for a reconnaissance mission. After all, although it was always hoped that their team would complete their mission, no one really expected a recon squad to survive. Such lonely, desperate conditions were no place for someone like Amber Haylen, no matter how gifted a scribe she was. Still, she had never shirked her duty, had always followed his orders to the letter. Haylen was an impeccable soldier, and her empathy for others had only proven to make her a better one. If Danse was the brain of the squad and volatile Rhys its heart, Haylen was most certainly its soul. There had probably been a reason that the three of them were the last members of their team standing.

After all they'd been through, Rhys and Haylen were far more than just his subordinates, Danse realized. They were his family, in an even truer way than how the Brotherhood of Steel as a whole had become his family. He trusted them both not just with his life, but with everything. Before Myra, there was no one he would rather work with, no one he would rather put his life on the line for. It felt good to be with them both again, even for this brief moment before their most dangerous mission to date. There was a warmth that having them beside him brought, a fearsome sort of comfort that could only be found on the battlefield.

The Paladin smiled gently down at Haylen, offering her a subtle nod. "Affirmative," he soothed. "I'll do everything in my power to return to this waypoint with Rhys in tow."

"Hey, why am I in tow?" Rhys snarked, smiling in spite of himself. "I'm definitely coming back, and in better shape than ever. No way I'll fall behind!"

Haylen chuckled, the worry in her eyes evaporating somewhat. "I never doubted it," she replied jokingly. "You're both far too stubborn to quit on me now." She headed for a stack of crates, prying one open and digging around inside. "Just to make it easier, I brought you boys a few other toys."

"Toys?" Danse asked. "You mean valuable technology, of course."

Haylen snorted. "Yes, sir! I mean, it's nothing world-shatteringly amazing, but..." she tossed them each what looked like a handheld radio. "Ingram and I collaborated on these. I'm not going to guarantee that they'll work in there, but they should boost your comm signals. We took a few ideas from Larimer's Pip-Boy, among other things."

Danse fiddled with the device. It was, like most of their equipment, on the ungainly side, but easy enough to attach to the back of his helmet. Once locked in place, it emitted a soft, almost soothing hum. "Outstanding," he murmured in awe.

Haylen nodded as she helped Rhys fit his unit. "It should also collect data for me on your general condition," she continued. "Your pulse, health, radiation exposure...basically anything I'd put on a chart, I'll be able to track as long as the signal's good."

Rhys smirked at her. "I knew you'd find a way to get even more nosy," he teased.

"Well, what's a girl supposed to do when she's been left behind?" Haylen shot back. "I've got to keep myself occupied somehow, and if that means charting how often you need to pee, Rhys, I'm gonna do that."

The knight stared at her in horror. "It...it tracks that?"

Haylen laughed warmly. "I'm not saying it doesn't," she replied.

Rhys visibly paled. "Well, that's comforting," he grumbled.

Danse sighed. "Stop tormenting Rhys, Haylen," he ordered. "I believe you had more equipment for us?

She nodded. "Everything else you need's in that pack I gave Rhys. The most important thing, of course, is a modified distress beacon. When you find the nukes, just turn it on and plant it by them, and I'll send in the cavalry."

The paladin frowned. "I thought vertibirds couldn't fly in the Glowing Sea," he objected. "How exactly are we extracting the nuclear bombs?"

Haylen smiled enigmatically at him. "Don't worry, sir. Proctor Ingram's been working on a hardened vertibird that can make the trip. It's not ready yet, but we hope it'll be done by the time you get back."

Danse accepted her answer. Trust Ingram not to tell him all the details of the mission. He turned to Rhys. "Sunrise, such as it is, is in an hour. I'd prefer to start our journey in daylight, so you may use that time as you wish."

"Sir!" Rhys replied, offering him a salute.

Danse returned the salute before crossing the small waypoint and settling in near the remains of a tree. He stared out at the wasteland beyond, his mind filled with memories of his last journey to the Glowing Sea. He wasn't eager to return, still less without Myra by his side. Still, procuring the nukes was his duty, and his duty was still almost everything he had.

He pulled out Myra's holy card, the weathered image of _Our Lady of Victory_. He caressed the edge of the card as gently as he could with armored fingers, his heart filled with aching for her. That was the thing that surprised him the most about being in love, he supposed: the longing. He and Myra had spent more time apart than together, and yet it still felt like part of him was missing when she was gone. The months she'd been lost to the Institute were an agony, a loneliness no one else or even his work had been able to fill. Certainly, he'd continued on, and had done his duty as competently as he had before, but there was less joy in it, less meaning behind his actions than there'd been. It felt like the world was somehow askew just enough to make everything seem wrong. Danse had never felt that way before. And if it was the last thing he did, he was determined never to feel that way again.

After this mission, he'd make things right. He'd get Arthur's permission, even if he had to beg, and he'd finally bring Myra home in a permanent way. He couldn't wait until the war with the Institute was over, until somehow there was peace in this land. The time would never truly be right. He knew that in his soul. So once he returned to base, Danse would make the time right. And they would finally be truly happy, without the spectre of things unsaid or undone hanging over them.

He daydreamed about them returning to the cabin and fixing it up, making a farmstead for themselves. He quickly dismissed the idea, as pleasant as it was. The attack on their dinner had already proven that the little lakeside retreat wasn't secure. No, it would be more prudent for them to apply for married housing at the Airport. He'd seen some of the proposed plans for an on-base settlement, and several of them looked...acceptable. Besides, it didn't matter where they lived. What mattered was that he and Myra would be together, as long as they both lived.

He carefully placed the card in his helmet, securing it carefully to protect it from the elements. Once his belongings were repacked, he closed his eyes with a soft sigh. There wasn't enough time for true rest, but he could at least try to slow his breathing down and let his weary eyes have their break. In the distance, he could just make out Rhys' and Haylen's voices. They were bickering again, which came as no surprise. Danse smiled slightly, letting the familiar sounds wash over him. It was good to savor these moments when he could. He'd learned that lesson years ago.

Soon, all too soon, he heard armored footsteps approaching. Danse cracked an eye open as Rhys clanked to a stop beside him. "Sun's up, sir," the knight said simply.

Danse nodded, tossing on his helmet and snapping it in place. "Then it is high time we got to work, soldier," he said simply. Together, he and Rhys marched south, leaving Haylen, the waypoint, and the last sign of friendly life behind.

* * *

"That looks like the right place!" Rhys called wearily, pointing at a tall black pyramid that rose out of the swirling, greenish fog. "Unless they built a lot of buildings like that before the War."

Danse nodded. "Good work, soldier!" To say that the last few days had been long would be a massive understatement. Their journey had been slow, arduous, and terrible. It seemed like every few hours had brought new horrors and hazards, from a family of deathclaws they'd stumbled upon to a sinkhole full of ferals, the monsters of the Glowing Sea had seemed determined to hamper their progress and eat through their ammunition. And that wasn't even mentioning the weather. Haylen had been right: the storms had been far more frequent than they'd been during Danse's last expedition, and far, far deadlier. He and Rhys had been forced to make camp in half-buried buildings for hours at a time, just waiting out the worst of the radioactive gales that howled across the twisted, poison land. It was a miracle that they'd made it this far in just under a week.

As they approached, the structure seemed somehow even more imposing, its angled walls blotting out the light as they stomped towards the entrance. There was a solemn, forbidden energy to the place, a weight that slowed Danse's steps as he drew nearer. It was not just a building, he thought to himself. In many ways, this was a true pyramid. It was a tomb, not merely of men, but of a civilization. The quiet it demanded of the air was its requiem, a held breath kept for centuries, waiting to be rattled forth from its jaws. Danse felt his skin grow cold and clammy in his suit. There was a wrongness here that overrode his reason.

He made his way to the door, a massive wall of metal that reminded him of a bank vault. For a moment, he hesitated, unable to bring himself to turn the massive valve, to break the seal that kept the secrets within away from human eyes. He cleared his throat, steadying himself as the thick bars of metal that held the door in place began to clear. Rhys grabbed on beside him, putting his weight into the wheel. "Ugh!" the knight grunted. "Seems a little...rusty."

Danse nodded, and the two of them managed to get the door open. A few feet forward, and another just like it awaited them.

Rhys whistled in awe. "They had to be worried about security here, huh sir?"

"That or this was all a precaution to keep the radiation in," Danse replied.

Rhys snorted. "Well, they should have been more worried about the radiation outside. Not that they'd have known that," he added. There was a tinge of sadness in his voice, echoing the feeling of solemn dread in Danse's heart. If it wasn't necessary, perhaps it would have been better if they'd never disturbed this place.

The door opened on a deep pit surrounded by blast doors and gantries, a constant alarm blaring as they approached the edge. Danse wasn't sure if the alarm had activated when they'd opened the door or if it had been going for two centuries, an anguished wailing for a lost world that no one had remained to hear. Danse shuddered. The pit, the musty heat, the blaring cry...he had never before seen such a perfect representation of hell.

Rhys peered over the edge, his helmet expressionless. "So, should we take the shortcut, sir?" he asked.

Danse shook his head. "Negative. If this is a bomb storage facility, we have no way of knowing what lies beneath us. Personally, I don't feel like triggering a meltdown." He headed for the first blast door. "We'll just have to content ourselves with the long way around."

As they slowly descended the facility, Danse could feel his unease rising. He tried to shake it off, to ignore the growing dread in his heart. He was a paladin of the Brotherhood, for heaven's sake, not some mewling child jumping at every shadow. He had to get ahold of himself. The paladin tried his best to clear his mind, to analyze the situation rationally. There were no ghosts out to torment him, no foul demons bent on taking his soul. If there were, he was certain laser fire would put them in their place as surely as any other threat. Monsters didn't scare him. He'd slaughtered them for a majority of his life.

It was something else, something so deep, so primal that it gripped his heart in spite of his training, his discipline. The wrongness he'd felt at looking at the outside of the facility deepened with every step, like a heavy pressure squeezing down on him as he ventured deeper, deeper into the pit. Even as he broke into the mainframe and disabled the alarm, he could still feel its siren call in his deepest self. His head throbbed, blood rushing to his ears and obscuring everything. They should not have been there. They needed to get out.

"Sir, are you feeling okay?" Rhys asked.

Danse turned to look at him, grateful for the gravitas his helmet gave him. Rhys could not see his trepidation or his embarrassment at having so lost himself to his fear. "I'm...quite all right, Rhys," he reassured the knight.

Rhys sighed. "Your breathing is ragged, sir. If you need to rest, please don't push yourself."

"That won't be necessary," Danse shot back. "We have a job to do, soldier. Let's just find the payload and complete our mission."

The knight didn't seem satisfied with this, but he didn't press Danse further. That was one thing the paladin had always liked about Rhys. He was headstrong, passionate, and stubborn as hell, but he also knew how to do his job without making too much of a fuss. Rhys might mouth off sometimes, but Danse could always count on him, could trust the man to do his duty.

Deeper and deeper they ventured, until finally the network of catwalks and laboratories gave way to a filthy concrete floor, a gaping maw leading off into the darkness. That had to be the way to the storage depot. Danse collected himself, readying his laser rifle. Odds were good that there were hostiles ahead. After all, they'd only seen a handful of bodies. Most of the staff was missing, which meant...

"Ferals on your 5!" cried Rhys, opening fire. The red hot laser blasts illuminated the bottom of the pit in strobe-like flashes, each moment a still frame of snarls and teeth as the ghouls closed in. Danse took aim and joined the fray, his heart racing with the horror and the thrill of combat.

They made fast work of the mob in a way only two Brotherhood soldiers could, the writhing hunger reduced to a slurry of blood, gore, and ash. Danse exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding, looking over at Rhys with a surge of almost paternal pride. "Outstanding work, knight!" he exclaimed.

Rhys laughed weakly. "Think that was all of them, sir?"

Danse shook his head. "Most likely not," he replied. "We should continue moving. I'm not certain of the structural integrity of this facility." He switched his headlamp on. "Be careful, and don't take any unnecessary risks."

"Yes, sir!" Rhys replied, storming into the tunnel ahead, his own headlamp casting a bobbing beam of light across the narrow walls and uneven floor. The darkness that remained seemed thicker, somehow, almost alive. Danse tried not to think about it. He had to get himself under control.

Surprisingly, they encountered little else in the way of resistance, and soon found themselves in a large concrete room. Stairs to one side led to what Danse supposed was an office, but by far the most striking feature was a massive pair of steel doors. He estimated that they were nearly forty feet high, rising to kiss the high ceiling of the room. "That must be our objective," he reflected.

"I'd say so," Rhys replied. "But how do we get..." he trailed off, dashing over to the stairs. "Sir! There's fresh corpses here! Someone else has found this facility!"

"What?" Danse followed him. Sure enough, barely obscured by a stack of pre-War crates were three bodies. Danse shuddered as he realized that two of them had very clearly been gnawed upon. Had ferals done this, or...

Rhys snorted in derision. "Children of Atom. How the hell did they get here?"

"Atom's light guides us in mysterious ways," called a voice from the top of the stairs. Danse stood abruptly, leveling his rifle at the figure before him. The lights behind the stranger were blindingly bright after their trek through the darkness, casting him in silhouette. 

"Stay where you are, civilian!" Danse barked.

The figure chuckled, raising his arms in surrender. "I do not fear your weapons, stranger," he retorted. "For I serve a far more powerful master than you. I mean you no harm, unless indeed you seek it."

Danse lowered his weapon, motioning for Rhys to do the same. "How did you get here?" he asked.

The shadowed stranger laughed again. "Why, it was the will of Atom. The question is, what are you doing here in this sacred shrine? Do you seek Division?"

"I'm just here for the bombs," Danse said matter-of-factly.

"The sacred relics?" the man replied. "For what purpose?"

Danse groaned. He hated these religious zealots. They were all insane, and dangerously so. He'd have to either win the man over to their cause or kill him, and he had no way of knowing how many other fanatics remained in the building. "We...seek to use them," he offered.

"You wish to bring forth Atom's power?" the man asked, his voice shrouded in awe. "Well, by all means! Come in, and your path will be revealed to you! Oh, how long we have awaited this day!" He stumbled inside the office, beckoning Danse and Rhys to follow.

"Sir, are you sure we shouldn't just kill him?" Rhys hissed.

Danse shook his head. "I doubt he'll try to prevent us from removing the bombs," he explained. "You heard him. He wants to see their power utilized. And in case you've forgotten, we don't harm civilians. No matter how far removed from their senses they are."

Rhys sighed. "I understand that, sir, but Children of Atom? They're like radroaches. You let one live, and they breed in the darkness."

"That may be," Danse agreed, "but what danger are a few Children of Atom out here in the middle of nowhere?"

Rhys shook his head. "I've never known you to get bogged down in sentiment, sir."

Danse smiled weakly behind his helmet. "Rhys, it may surprise you to find that there is more to me than you might observe on the battlefield. I predict that the same is true of most of our brothers and sisters, should you take the time to familiarize yourself with them."

"I...um..." Rhys stammered. "Is that something you suggest doing, sir?"

Danse could barely suppress a chuckle. Rhys was so earnest, so dedicated, that even now he was asking for orders. "I used to not think so," the paladin responded. "But I've grown to believe that knowing the people you serve with is not only useful, but crucial. My...Knight Larimer seems to believe that truly knowing your allies makes you stronger, and after the last year, I'm inclined to agree."

Rhys snorted. "You really have changed, sir."

He shrugged, his armor shifting and clanking in protest. "I fail to see how that's a negative development." Danse watched Rhys carefully. "After...after our mission is complete, would you like to...that is, I think it would benefit us both to spend some time together outside of work."

Rhys froze. "You want to spend time. With me?" he asked nervously.

"As long as you have no objections." Danse sighed. "You've been on my squad for years, now, and I still don't believe we've ever just...had a conversation that wasn't mission-oriented. I thought, perhaps, if you don't mind the intrusion..."

The knight nodded. "I think I'd like that very much, sir," he replied. "Once we've returned to base, then."

"Very well," Danse said, palpably relieved. He could feel a warmth beginning to grow in his heart, dispelling some of the fear and dread that had built up over the course of this mission. Myra was right. There was a power in bonding with others. After this, he'd spend time with Rhys and Haylen, would work to strengthen the bonds between them. He had to stop living in fear of losing the people he cared about. Not when that fear was preventing him from truly knowing or experiencing them. He was through wasting time and simply doing his duty at the cost of all else. He wanted more.

Rhys, too, seemed happier, a slight spring in his step as he marched forward. "We shouldn't keep the crazies waiting, sir," he offered.

"Indeed," Danse replied, following behind him. "Let's finish our mission, Rhys."

As the knight had feared, there was far more than one Child of Atom in the office. In fact, small and cramped as the room was, a whole colony of the zealots seemed to have moved in. Danse counted five, with bedding and supplies for nearly ten more crammed into the tight space.

"You must forgive our cramped quarters," the man they'd met apologized. "We had dedicated the entire room outside the shrine to worship and living space, but..." his face fell. "Several of our brothers and sisters were consumed by Atom's Messengers. Fearing their wrath, we chose to relocate."

"Atom's...Messengers?" Rhys asked. "You mean the ferals?"

The man nodded. "In His light, they were changed. They bear witness to Atom's holy power. And yet..." he shuddered. "Sometimes even the saints must feed their earthly bodies."

Danse groaned. "Can you tell us how to open the blast doors?"

"Of course! Of course!" the madman cried. He gestured to a terminal. "Within the holy words, you will find the path to enlightenment. May you enter into our Lord's glowing embrace as you sow Division among the unbelievers."

"Yeah, yeah," Rhys muttered, fiddling with the terminal. A few moments later, an alarm sounded, followed by the grating scrape of heavy metal moving against concrete. "Got it!" he exclaimed.

"Excellent work, soldier!" Danse praised. "Let's secure the payload."

The paladin couldn't help but let out a low whistle of awe as they passed the threshold into the bomb storage room. Cages upon cages holding the precious, destructive cargo were stacked nearly to the ceiling, filling the spacious warehouse with enough firepower to end the world anew. It was stunning. It was terrifying.

"Holy..." Rhys exclaimed. "There's got to be a few thousand bombs in here!"

Danse nodded. "And all right under the nose of the Children of Atom," he muttered. That was concerning. He activated the distress beacon, hiding it among the boxes. "Rhys, report back to Haylen at the waypoint," he ordered. We need to make sure our signal can reach her."

The knight frowned. "Without you, sir?"

Danse nodded. "After our welcoming committee, one of us needs to remain here with the bombs, to protect them." He sighed. "I was intending to join you, but if the Children of Atom change their minds about letting us have the payload..."

Rhys sighed. "I understand."

"I hate to ask you to brave the Glowing Sea alone, Rhys," Danse continued, "but I have every confidence in your ability to survive out there. Getting the signal out...it's more important than anything else. I couldn't trust it to anyone else."

"Thank you, sir," Rhys replied. "I think I saw a lift in the other room. That should return me to the surface. Just..." he raised his arm slightly, as if to clasp Danse's. Holding it for a moment, he hesitated before choosing to salute instead. "I'll come back for you, sir! Count on it!"

"I will," Danse said, returning the salute. "Ad Victoriam, Rhys!"

"Ad Victoriam, sir!" Rhys barked, stomping purposefully out of the room. A few moments later, the giant doors swung shut, thudding into place with a heavy finality. Silence was all that remained.

Danse immediately got to work counting the bombs, hoping to save the salvage team some time. He'd gotten to about 480 when the comm unit in his helmet beeped. Emergency Frequency 7549. A message from someone on Recon Squad Gladius. He tuned to the frequency, straining to hear the message against the static.

“_Paladin Danse _ ,” Haylen’s voice crackled. “ _ If you can hear me, you need to go to ground. Proctor Quinlan’s convinced everyone that you’re a synth. I...I don’t know if that’s true or not, but you need to hide, immediately. They’ll kill you if they find you. I’ll do what I can to stall the vertibird that's headed for the nuclear storage facility, but I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to buy you. It’s...it's been an honor, sir. Good luck _.”

Danse felt the color drain from his face. Was this some kind of joke? No, Haylen wouldn’t make light of such a horrible idea, so there must be some truth behind it. He was...he was a synth? That couldn’t be possible. He had decades worth of memories, friends, people who knew him and could vouch for him. Surely Arthur wouldn’t believe that nonsense. Not without compelling evidence.

There was no possible way he was...one of those things! He could remember his childhood, the hunger and fear in his belly as he struggled to survive alone in the Capital Wasteland. He could still feel the first bright moments of comfort in his heart when Ethan Cutler had rescued him, had given him purpose and companionship. The customers and clients he'd made in their scrap business...he could remember them all, couldn't he? Admittedly, the details were fuzzy, but that had been almost fifteen years ago. Anyone would forget a few minor things like that!

He remembered Heather Gautier, the valiant young woman who'd saved the Capital Wasteland. He could still feel the sting of betrayal at her desertion, the horrible aftermath that had left an elder and his best friend both dead. He remembered Arthur Maxson as a young squire, shy and full of emotions that everyone around him had told him made him weak, a boy who had given Danse someone to protect, and later an even greater purpose. Thousands of memories refuted what Haylen had told him. Those could not be fake. They couldn't. Danse was human. He was real. Wasn't he?

As much as he didn’t want to believe that he was a synth, the very thing he’d been fighting against for years, Danse had to acknowledge that he didn’t have a whole lot of time to agonize over it. Regardless of what he believed, the Brotherhood of Steel had decided he was the enemy. If he was going to survive, he needed to get to safety, immediately.

Danse removed his power armor carefully, making sure to leave it in a likely hiding spot. After carefully removing Myra's holy card, he placed his helmet on top to complete the illusion. No one would be able to tell at first glance that the suit was empty. That would buy him some time. 

He tore through his pack. Rhys, bless his consistently overprepared heart, had asked him to carry quite a few emergency supplies, including...yes! A hazmat suit. It would protect him against radiation as well as prying eyes. He quickly stepped into the orange suit, pulling the glass-domed helmet over his head. The Paladin packed his flight suit tightly in his backpack. If he was very lucky, he’d be able to make it north in one piece.

He paused for a moment, his fingers tracing over the image of _Our Lady of Victory_ before he placed the card securely in a zippered pocket in his pack. Danse extracted a scrap of paper and a pencil from another pocket, scribbling a hasty note.

_Knight Larimer, _

_ I’m sorry for whatever trouble my actions have caused you. Please continue living up to the ideals I’ve taught you. Ad Victoriam. _

_ -Senior Paladin Danse _

He removed his armor’s fusion core, wrapped the note around it, then returned it to its place. Someone would find it, he hoped. He wished he could tell her more, could remind her of his love for her one final time. But it was dangerous enough for Myra as it was. He hoped she’d read between the lines, would see what he wanted to say.

He fled the nuclear storage facility through the back entrance, staying low and quiet as he crept through the barren landscape, trying to understand how everything had gone so horribly awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, you all knew it was coming. Will Danse be able to survive this unwelcome revelation? And will he and Myra be able to still find a way to be together, now that the Brotherhood is after him? Only time will tell.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Myra arranges a meeting with Deacon, but some decisions might come too late.


End file.
